American Horror Story - Season 1-5 E9 - Fall pt 2
by leaftheweed
Summary: Episode 9: This Halloween is all about Westfield High - before, during, & after the shootings. No more dreams. See what actually happened that day. Then see it when Tate goes back in 2018 to put the past to rest. Ben's promised to help but he has issues of his own to sort out. This episode is a jagged little pill: Take with caution. Written in the style of show. Features full cast.
1. Chapter 1 - Terror at Westfield

This is** Episode 9 **of American Horror Story season 1.5 - Murder House Revisited. At this point you probably won't be too confused if you haven't read the other episodes. But some parts may leave you wondering if you haven't. If you enjoy this, I encourage you to read the rest.

* * *

My brave lad he sleeps in his faded coat of blue,  
In a lonely grave unknown lies the heart that beat so true.  
He sank faint and hungry among the famished brave,  
And they laid him sad and lonely within his nameless grave.

_A Faded Coat of Blue _- J.H. McNaughton

...

**1994**

The red dots of several laser scopes were trained on Tate's chest. He had his hands up. He could hear his mother screaming somewhere beyond the room. Everything sounded hollow. Time was running so slowly it felt like it was winding down. He couldn't stop shaking even though he was smiling. He didn't know if it was the drugs or adrenaline. He wasn't afraid.

The SWAT team filled his bedroom. He had no idea so many people could fit in the room. Behind the black wall of men bristling with automatic weapons he could see Mrs. Nora. It was the first time as a teen that she saw him and knew him immediately, despite his age. Maybe it was the danger he was in that made her remember him. Whatever the case, he knew he wasn't alone.

She passed effortlessly through the line of emergency personnel without their notice. She had a lace handkerchief in one hand and a strange look on her tear-streaked face: A blend of concern, despair, and... understanding. She knew her house was about to claim another victim. One she'd tried so hard to save.

Tate lifted his hand to his temple in a motion just like De Niro did in that movie, _Taxi Driver_, when he was cornered by the cops. Just like Nora had shot her husband so many years before. Tate mouthed the explosion the gun would have made. He was telling her his final plan. He wasn't scared. Even though his eyes were brim full of tears, he was ready. He'd been ready for months.

The SWAT team didn't understand what he was doing. They got nervous. Nora paced closer, weeping silently. She brought her hands together before her in a way that resembled prayer, the handkerchief clutched between them. Tate dove for the gun hidden under his pillow. He intended to use it to kill himself with - he wasn't going to go to prison. But the SWAT didn't know his plan and made one of their own.

He only felt the first two bullets out of the volley that struck him but he felt the floor hit his back when he fell. It knocked the wind out of him and he couldn't pull another breath to replace it. His lungs wouldn't work. A man put his face up close to Tate's and shouted questions but it was gibberish to the fatally injured teen. All he could focus on was the hot wetness that was spreading out beneath him. He wondered if he'd pissed himself then he realized it was blood. He tried to laugh but the only thing that came out was more blood.

Then the man was gone and Mrs. Nora's face was the next one he saw. She was still silently crying but now she was smiling gently at him as well. She pet his messy hair and held his hand and everything went dark for a long time.

When he finally woke Nora helped him to his feet and away from the scene of his death before he could register anything. His body had already been removed by the officers but there was still blood everywhere. She paused only long enough to grab the stack of clothes she'd gathered for him, including one of his favorite sweaters. The she took him to the basement where she could help him get cleaned up and, more importantly, where she could shelter him from the invaders who would come searching Murder House for answers they wouldn't find.

**...**

**░A░m░e░r░i░c░a░n░ ░H░o░r░r░o░r░ ░S░t░o░r░y░**

**...**

**1994 - 2 days after the shootings**

"Terror at Westfield," the blonde newscaster announced grimly from behind her sheaf of papers. "Two days after the tragic shootings at the Los Angeles high school, detectives are still no closer to understanding what drove a seemingly normal young man to commit the nation's worst school shooting."

The image switched to one filmed outside of Westfield High School. It was footage taken from the day of the shootings. Three teens were clustered around a reporter's microphone, faces stained with tears and drawn with shock and emotional trauma.

"I was hiding under the desk," one girl said. She hiccupped on a sob and forced herself to keep talking even though it was difficult. "And I saw him walk by and the girl hiding across from me... he just shot her in the face."

"There was sooo much blood. It was everywhere," the girl next to her said and burst into silent tears. The boy with them hugged her and looked like he wanted to cry too but he didn't. He just held his friend while she wept and he focused on the school building surrounded by patrol cars and ambulances.

The blonde newscaster was on the screen again and this time there was a little picture above her right shoulder. It was yearbook photo of Tate Langdon when he was in the 7th grade, even though he was in the 11th grade when he shot up Westfield. It was a dorky picture: His hair was a mess, looking like a bird's nest atop his head. He'd been asking the photographer if he should smile yet when the picture snapped so he had a wide-eyed look. It would have been adorkably cute if it weren't for the fact that it was being associated with 15 murders.

"Why?" The blonde woman intoned. "That's what a shocked nation wants to know. Why did a seemingly normal middle class high-schooler set fire to a man and then go on a killing spree at his school? The world may never truly know what motivated the murders. Investigators have seized documents and a computer from the family home but no further information has been made available."

She turned in her chair to face another camera and another picture popped up over her shoulder, this one a still shot of the school from afar, emergency vehicles and news vans parked all around. "Were there warning signs that were missed?" she asked gravely. "Friends of the shooter say they knew he was troubled but that they never thought he could do something like this."

The reporter disappeared, replace by more video footage. A teen boy in a long black coat addressed the microphone. Another guy, this one with a black spiked mohawk and Goth guy-liner, stood behind him looking grim.

"People picked on him," the teen in the black coat said. He was in Tate's biology class. They weren't friends but they weren't enemies either. He just wanted people to know what he saw. "The jocks. They called him names. Pushed him around. I guess it just... Maybe it got to be too much for him."

The footage jumped to another side of the school where two young men stood with another reporter. One was wearing a baseball cap sporting the school's mascot, the Wolverine. The other teen had a buzz-cut and a scar in one eyebrow.

"His whole family practices witchcraft," the first boy said with a grimace. He wasn't a friend of Tate's. He didn't even know Tate. He just wanted to be on television. "You could_ tell_ he was on the edge. You'd see him walking down the halls? And you'd just want to get out of his way. He didn't have any respect for anybody."

"He was gay," the guy with the buzz-cut told the reporter solemnly. He knew Tate but they'd never been friends. Quite the opposite.

Then the blonde newscaster was back. "Investigators say that the last of the bodies have been removed from the school. They are still in the process of identifying the victims. Parents of children who are still missing are encouraged to bring copies of dental records to the county coroner's office to aid in this process."

She turned in her chair again and the picture over her shoulder was of the local basketball team logo. "Major League Baseball has announced that all Los Angeles games for the next two weeks have been postponed."

Another video clip showed the Angels' coach behind a podium crowded with dozens of microphones. "In the wake of the recent tragedy," he said in a trembling voice. "The team just doesn't have the heart to play. We hope our fans respect and understand this decision. All passes will be honored at the next game that's played."

The reporter was back again. "In national news, the President has canceled his trip to inspect the Florida wetlands preserve in order to visit Los Angeles."

The President popped onscreen and droned sadly about solidarity and tragedy and how the American spirit would overcome. Then the show cut to a commercial for fabric softener.

**...**

* * *

Author's Note:

When I first saw AHS Season 1, I thought Tate was wearing a trench coat, like the Columbine shooters. It wasn't till I started thinking to do a Halloween costume based on Tate's skull-faced shooter that I discovered it wasn't a trench coat at all. It was a Prussian blue Union soldier's Civil War frock coat. I figure it's probably something Constance had from her acting days, although California was a Union state so who knows where it came from. In reality it was probably what was on hand in the wardrobe department.

After the shootings at Columbine the media shamelessly played whatever they could attach to the tragedy without checking facts. Several people told reporters things that weren't even remotely true. It didn't matter to the media as long as they had something sensational to keep viewers from changing the channel. So they played the false reports round the clock, over and over again, till some misinformation became inseparable from what was real. Nearly 15 years later some of those rumors still persist and will probably never go away.

The boy who said Tate was gay is Douglas, the same guy who gave him a hard time in the library (and many other places at school). I thought about letting Tate kill him but I didn't want Tate to have to deal with him for the rest of eternity. There are already a couple of guys (friends of Douglas') that are bad enough without having their ringleader present. So Douglas gets to grow old, fat, bald, get married and divorced, have kids who never write and prostate cancer that'll kill him when he's 62. Fair? I don't know. But that's life.

Next chapter: Halloween. Are you ready for this? The Dead Breakfast Club has been waiting years for it. Also: Ben and Patrick have a chat, whether Pat wants to or not.


	2. Chapter 2 - Halloween Morning

**2018 - October 31, morning**

Tate, in teen form, stepped out the front door into the autumn sunlight. The light had shifted almost imperceptibly with the onset of fall: The slant of the shadows was longer and the air wasn't quite so stiflingly hot as it had been. In other parts of the country leaves were changing color and some areas even had snow. In Los Angeles, the climate wasn't so dramatic but if one knew what to look for, autumn could be seen. He and Ben were supposed to meet up to go have that coffee Tate said he wanted. It had sounded great at the time but he immediately regretted the decision as soon as he left the house.

"See, g-guys?" a familiar voice to his right said. "I t-told you he'd c- he'd c-come out again."

Tate turned and saw the Dead Breakfast Club approaching, dead rocker Kevin in the lead. It was him who'd spoken. Tate felt his stomach knot up but he didn't move. He didn't even blink.

"I don't want to do this now," he told them warily.

"Oh, he doesn't want to do this now," Stephanie, the goth girl, said mockingly with a game show hostess wave that encompassed the blond boy. She glared at him, stepping closer in a threatening way. "I didn't want to die on the floor of the library but you didn't give me that choice!"

"Hey. Hey." Ben stepped between them, surprising the girl.

Tate shifted his weight and shoved his fingers in the pockets of his jeans. He tried not to look at any of the other teens, all of whom were looking confused and angered at the intrusion. All except Amir; it was hard to tell what expression he wore with his face all torn up. Tate wondered why he didn't heal it. Then he wondered if maybe it was like the scars on his own wrists, how they wouldn't go away. Then he stopped wondering.

"Let's just take it easy," Ben was saying, to the goth girl specifically but to the group as a whole.

"Who's this loser?" Stephanie demanded. She looked at the other Westfield High victims but none of them had an answer. She looked up at Ben and scowled. "I don't know who you are and I don't care. This is none of your damn business."

"Actually, it is," said Ben, noosing the surge of anger her attitude provoked. He imagined beating her like he had beaten the man in Tate's nightmare. He smiled benignly. "I'm Tate's therapist. Doctor Harmon."

The group laughed, those that had the physical ability to. Amir just bobbed his head and shifted around.

"Therapist?" Kyle blurted incredulously. "Don't you think it's a little late for that?"

"No," answered Ben. "In fact I've been an acting therapist to ghosts for over seven years now. It's never too late to try and sort out your issues."

Most of the kids still looked skeptical to downright disgusted. Ben did notice the cheerleader looking at him in a curious way. He injected more warmth in his smile when he trained it on her. She looked away self-consciously. Without the shotgun blast spoiling the image she would look very cute in that cheer getup. Why on earth had Tate shot her?

"We're d-dead," Kevin said. "There's nothing t-to sort out."

"Isn't there?" parried Ben, looking at the boy now. "You have all October to roam around and get a breath of life and what do you do? You spend it here?" He motioned to the yard and porch. "That's a pretty big issue if you ask me."

"Well, nobody asked you!" said Stephanie, balling up her fists. "Where we go is _our_ business."

Ben nodded. "You're right. It is. And where we go is ours. Now if you'll excuse us, Tate and I have someplace to be."

The kids looked at each other uncertainly. Then Tate stepped out of Ben's shadow though he didn't exactly step forward.

"If you guys want to settle this," he said in a low tone. His shoulders were hunched up but his fingers were still in his pockets. "Meet me at Westfield on Halloween night. I'll tell you everything then."

The other teens stirred, looked at each other and Tate. Even Ben got a couple of glances.

"Halloween night?" echoed Kyle.

For years the group had restlessly wandered during October, searching for answers and coping with the way the world was moving on without them. They'd fallen victim to their own patterns and lost direction in the process. The idea of resolution was both invigorating and frightening.

"Yeah," Tate said. He drew confidence from their uncertainty. "Halloween night. We can finish this then. For good."

They exchanged looks again, none daring to believe what they were hearing. Finally, Kyle looked at him and lifted his chin a little. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his football jacket.

"Fine. Halloween night," he said as gruff-sounding as he could make his voice. "You better be there."

Tate resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the false bravado. "I will be."

"Fine," Kyle said again because he didn't know what else to say.

Amir patted his pal on the shoulder and tipped his head toward the street. Kyle nodded, understanding. The group started to drift away, each teen shooting at least one glance back at Tate and his therapist.

They got about halfway to the gate when Ben said, "Hey, Chloe." He'd made it a point to learn all of Tate's victims' names and what they looked like, particularly the ones who kept showing up at his house.

She paused and he went down the sidewalk to where she was. The rest of her group stopped closer to the street to wait for her and to see what was going on.

"You seemed kind of curious when I mentioned therapy," Ben said to her in a low tone meant for her only. "If you ever want to talk - about Westfield or just anything - please feel free to come by. My office is here in the house."

She didn't say anything but she gave a little nod and then rejoined her friends. Ben watched them leave.

"Don't you have enough problems with women?" Tate said behind him teasingly.

Ben turned to look at him, brows inching up. "What? I was just letting Chloe know-"

"Yeah, doc," said Tate with a smile. "I know what you were doing. Come on. Let's go get that coffee."

They spent a couple of hours together, deliberately talking about anything other than Westfield. Despite the game of pretend, neither could shake the feeling of something big looming on the horizon. They went their separate ways after their cups ran dry. Ben really did have someplace to be and Tate needed some time to himself. Time to prepare.

**...**

When Ben had agreed to Chad's suggestion about having Patrick fetch more pumpkins he had forgotten how particular the gay man was about his gourds. Ben had to go clear down to the pier, to the city's smallest farmer's market. He got there early and grabbed some coffee and a bagel at the quaint little open-air cafe just beside the entrance. Then he sat down at a table with a good view of the passing foot traffic.

He was there maybe fifteen minutes when he sensed and then saw Patrick. About the same time Pat looked right at him, detecting his presence as well as his attention. He eyed Ben, slowed, then angled toward his table. Ben put on a friendly smile.

"Hey," he said as if the meeting were a chance and pleasant surprise.

"What're you doing here?" said Patrick. He sounded suspicious but not hostile.

"Having some coffee," said Ben, lifting his almost-empty cup. "Then I'm grabbing some things for the girls. You?"

Pat eyed him, then said: "Chad's got me looking for more pumpkins. Apparently twenty isn't enough."

"Twenty?" Ben smiled.

"Give or take," Patrick said. "Maybe more. All sizes. He's even worse with the apples."

Ben chuckled. "Yeah, I've noticed that." He paused then said, "Do you want a cup of coffee? I was just about to get another one."

Patrick eyed him again. For a moment Ben thought he was going to say no but the man shrugged a beefy shoulder. "Sure."

Ben pushed himself out of the chair and together they headed over to the cafe's outside walk-up window. He let Patrick order first then put in his and paid for both, since he'd made the offer. When they had their cups they went back to the table Ben had been sitting at.

"So what's Chad planning this Halloween?" asked Ben as he stirred cream into his coffee.

"Nothing special," said Patrick. He sipped his mocha. "He just loves the excuse to redecorate the house."

Ben had been hoping for a tidier segue but the conversation was in danger of stalling out prematurely so he decided to go for broke. "Tate's planning to go up to Westfield on Halloween."

Patrick set his cup down and leveled a serious look at Ben. "What?"

"He wants to put the past to rest," said Ben in a positive way, with the hope that Patrick would latch onto it. "And he feels the best way to do that is by facing the souls of the people he killed."

Pat stared at him. He was getting that same look he had at that ill-fated breakfast. The look that said he was about two seconds away from ripping Ben's face off and feeding it to him. "Was that his idea? Or yours?"

"His," said Ben smoothly. "I told him I'd go with him."

Patrick's mouth tightened around the edges. He put both hands around his coffee cup like it was a throat he'd like to strangle. "You're taking him to Westfield. On Halloween."

Ben was very glad he'd had the presence of mind to do this in a public place. He really didn't like the other man's body language or tone. "Tate decided to go there," he corrected. His smile was gone. "I'm going with him for moral support and to make sure nothing happens to him."

"You didn't think to tell him not to go?" Pat's words were a terse growl.

Ben shrugged a shoulder and pretended not to notice the overt hostility. He was determined to keep this conversation human. "He may take the shape of a child for the sake of your 'arrangement' but he's not a kid. He's as old as you are and he has a right to decide for himself where he goes."

"He never left the house before you and your family showed up!" Patrick snapped. He surprised himself with the amount of venom in his words and he forced himself to sit back in his seat. He was so mad he was starting to tremble. He let go of the cup and shoved his hands down under the table so Ben wouldn't see how out of control he felt.

But Ben could feel the rage coming off the other man like waves of heat. If they hadn't been in the middle of the farmer's market, Ben might actually be worried. "And you think that's a good thing?"

Pat's jaw clenched as the verbal trap snared him. Unlike Chad, he couldn't think fast when he was pissed off. He did much better hitting things when he was mad.

Ben scored the fuming silence as a direct hit. "Why are you so angry, Patrick? Don't you think those kids he killed deserve an explanation for what he did? You do know what he did to them?"

"Yeah," Pat grunted. "I know. I also know that's not what this is about. Not for you."

Ben arched his brows and lit a cigarette. "Really. What's it about, for me?"

Pat got the distinct feeling of wading into a murky, snake-infested swamp. But he had no choice other than to plow ahead. He sure as hell couldn't back down. "I don't know, Ben. I can't figure out what you get out of playing head games with a kid. And he _is_ a kid. He died when he was seventeen. You're the shrink. You can see as easy as anyone that he's stuck there."

Ben exhaled smoke, slow and deliberate. "Then why are you having sex with him?"

Patrick's expression froze along with the blood he didn't have. Then his phantom heart was pounding like a cheetah's on the hunt. He suffered an incredibly strong impulse to throw the whole table at the smug man but he managed to check the urge. But as the rage subsided it unmasked the guilt that was lurking behind it. He rubbed his face with both hands then ran them through his short hair. He exhaled roughly and looked away. Nowhere in particular. Just not at Ben.

The therapist decided to let him off the hook because he didn't really care. He was satisfied with simply having verification that his suspicions were true. The rest was all Patrick's to deal with.

"It's obvious you and Tate have bonded," he said in his kindly shrink tone. It was the first one he'd learned from Doctor Lanyon. "That's not a bad thing. Especially in a situation like yours where you can't go anywhere most of the time."

Pat looked at him skeptically. But he was looking at him. Ben was pleased.

"He's going to go to Westfield," the doctor went on. "He's going to do that whether I'm with him or not. He made that clear to me. If you really want what's best for him, instead of making this more difficult, think about going with him instead. He's going to need all the support he can get. Whatever's going to happen there, it can't kill him but it can hurt him in ways we can't prepare for. I know you know that. He needs us to be his first response team, Patrick. Not part of the problem."

Patrick shifted in his seat and folded his arms. He didn't want to listen to Ben. He didn't want any of what the man was saying to make sense. But it did. He frowned and looked at the ground. It took him a while to say anything. Finally he looked up and his expression was pained. "What do I have to do?"

Ben couldn't be more satisfied. "I don't really know what - if anything - any of us can do except go with him. So he won't have to deal with that many people alone."

"What if they attack?" asked Pat helplessly. "Are we just supposed to stand there and let them?" He shook his head. "I don't want to throw down with a bunch of murder victims but I don't think I can just stand by and let a mob tear him apart. "

"I don't think that will happen," said Ben.

"But you don't know."

Ben shook his head now. "No. I don't. But I've met some of them. They're not bad kids. They're hurt. Confused. Angry, yeah. But weren't you?"

Patrick rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. "Yeah, Ben. That's what's got me so concerned. You remember what I was like."

"And you got past it," Ben reminded.

"Not before I killed him a few times," Patrick said. It was the first time he said that out loud. It didn't feel good, saying it. "He took my life and gave me... this. This thing. I don't know what this is or why we're even sitting here when we're not even fucking alive. I'm never going to get over being dead because of him. I'm stuck with it. They're not going to get over it either. There's nothing he can do to make it better, Ben. He changed all of us permanently and going to Westfield on Halloween isn't going to fix that."

"You make some very valid points," the therapist remarked. "But we don't really know what will happen. For all we know, if he goes there and apologizes like he says he wants to, all those trapped souls could be freed."

The skeptical look was back. "You've seen too many movies," said Pat.

"We don't really know," Ben insisted. "For all we know, all of this could end at any time, for no reason. No one understands ghosts or hauntings. Not even the oldest among us knows why or what we are or what keeps us tied here. But those kids deserve a chance at peace. And so does Tate."

"No!" Patrick objected.

"No?" Ben echoed in surprise.

"No, he doesn't!" said Pat. He sat forward. "I'm not going to be stuck in that house while he migrates on because he settled things with them!"

Ben flicked his cigarette butt away and gave the other man new consideration. "You're afraid he's not going to come back from Westfield?"

Patrick didn't want to answer that. He didn't have to.

"I seriously doubt Tate's going to suddenly springboard into heaven if he goes and apologizes to the people he killed," Ben said mildly, trying his best to word it so that Patrick could see for himself how silly the notion was.

Pat wasn't reassured. Much. He put his hands loosely around his coffee cup and picked at a chip in the ceramic. "I'll go," he said after a moment. "But I really, really don't like this."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

The stage is set. But will the end result be a triumph? Or just another tragedy? You'll have to stay tuned to find out.

When I set up the conversation with Ben and Patrick, I had no idea how it would go. A lot came out that I wasn't expecting. It's funny how things roll out when you don't pre-plan them. I think the talk was good for both of them though. Well, more for Patrick than Ben. Ben's self-satisfaction kind of made me want to step on his foot. He's got the biggest ego of any of the characters, I think.

The "he took my life..." line Patrick says is a bastardization of what Claudia told Louis when she discovered he and Lestat had turned her into a vampire in _Interview with a Vampire_.

As a side note, I noticed in Coven that the football jacket Kyle wears has the same colors to it as the one Westfield High's Kyle wears. The main difference: Kyle G's jacket has a W on it and Kyle S's jacket has a K. I'm positive the backs are different but I didn't get a good look at the back of the one Coven-Kyle wore.

Next chapter: Chloe surprises Ben by taking him up on his offer of ghost therapy. Also, I should warn you that this episode got so long it needed 10 chapters. I just couldn't squish it down more.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Doctor is In

**2018 - Halloween, mid-morning**

Ben left Patrick to his gourd shopping and guilt and went to grab some kiwi fruit for Violet and some peaches for Hayden. He even picked up some strawberries for Vivien even though he knew she wouldn't touch them while they were fighting. It wasn't as noble a gesture as it was intended to seem. He was only doing it so she couldn't score it against him for not bringing her something he was bringing the rest of the women he counted as his.

As an afterthought he picked up a banana for Hayden's monster baby. He wouldn't have thought the thing capable of enjoying food but she seemed to enjoy the cake at the birthday party as much as any other baby he'd seen. It would be an interesting experiment, seeing how she reacted to a banana, another favorite of babies everywhere.

He was considering what other experiments he could do with the tot when he got back to Murder House. He knew immediately that there was company on the porch even though he didn't see her until he stepped into the shade of the roof.

"Hello, Chloe," he smiled. "I'm surprised to see you here."

The cheerleader had been sitting near the wall but she got up and dusted the back of her short skirt. "I'm sorry," she smiled self-consciously. "Doctor Harmon, right? You- you said if I wanted to talk-"

"Of course," he assured quickly. "I meant what I said. Come on inside."

He pushed the front door open and let her go in first. He pushed it closed again once he followed her inside. "I was just down at the farmer's market. I need to drop these things by the kitchen real quick then I'm all yours." He started toward the kitchen then hesitated. "My office is down the hall there. Would you like me to bring you something to drink?"

She smiled. "Do you have any Perrier or Schwepps?"

"Do we have Perrier?" Ben grinned. With Chad in the house, that went without saying. "We practically have it on tap. I'll bring you a cold one."

He headed for the kitchen then and left the fruit on the counter. He was humming by the time he got the cap off the little green bottle of sparkling water. He carried it and a cup of coffee back to his office where he found Chloe perched on the edge of the long black leather couch. He nudged the door shut behind himself with one foot then brought her the bottled water.

She smiled that pretty little smile again as she took it. "Thanks."

"You're very welcome," Ben said. He set his coffee cup down and went to fetch his rolling chair. He pulled it right up next to the couch and sat down. "So tell me. What's on your mind?"

She had a drink from the bottle then lowered it. She looked at him with big brown eyes full of sorrow, fear, and the faint light of hope. "You seem so... normal."

He found the comment odd but he covered it with a quirky smile. "You're probably the first person who's ever said that to me." He had a sip from his coffee cup and set it aside on the nearby table.

She giggled softly, a little nervous but amused too. "I mean it. Every-" The smile died. "Everyone at Westfield... They're so. Dead."

Ben sat forward, propping his elbows on his thighs. He glanced at the wound in her chest. "Can't you heal?"

She looked at him blankly.

He tilted his head a little, trying to encourage some sort of answer with his open look. He got nothing. "You haven't tried to heal that injury?"

She blinked and shook her head slowly.

"Try it."

Her eyes got wider. "How?"

Ben's brows knit. "How? You just. Do it." He realized that wasn't helpful and added: "Try imagining the bone and tissue coming back together. Visualize the damage smoothing away. Closing up. Fixing itself. Think about what you looked like before the damage."

She set her water down and shut her eyes and followed his instructions. She'd looked in mirrors so often, it was very easy to picture herself the way she used to be. She focused. A thin line of concentration appeared between her fine brows.

"Is it gone?" she asked after a moment.

"No."

She opened her eyes and sighed sadly. "I did what you said."

"I know," Ben said gently. He patted her nearest knee. "I'm sorry. Every ghost is different. Most of the ones I know can heal themselves but there are several who can't seem to."

For an instant he saw himself atop the girl, his hand up her skirt, his lips almost on hers. He blinked and pulled his hand away from her. She didn't seem to notice so he figured the house was just messing with him. The vision had a direct affect on his cock though; he shifted a little so his navy blue sweater hid the evidence better.

"Why are you helping him?" she asked.

"I'm helping a lot of people," Ben said magnanimously. He could tell she didn't follow so he broke it down more. "Tate's ruined a lot of lives. More than you know. It's a big mess and big messes usually need more than one person to clean up, no matter who made them."

She understood that. She thought about it. While she did she nibbled her lower lip in the cutest way. Ben wanted to nibble that lip too.

"Is he really going to come to the school tonight?" she asked.

Ben nodded. "I'm going to be there with him."

Chloe looked at him, concerned. "The guys are planning to beat him up. Well. Not Mr. Cannavo. He doesn't know."

"Who's Mr. Cannavo?" asked Ben.

"The choir teacher," said the cheerleader.

"Tate shot the choir teacher?" Ben wondered. Did Tate even take choir? But he was getting distracted by facts he could find out on his own, when Chloe wasn't there. He refocused.

"That's part of what's so... so hard to understand," the girl was saying. She sounded confused; confounded, even. "Only a couple of the people he killed even knew who he was. I never did anything to him. I don't remember ever even seeing him before that day."

Ben steepled his index fingers and touched the tips to his chin while he thought. "Do you remember dying?"

She gave him a funny look but then shrugged. "No. The last thing I remember was hiding. Under the table." Her expression misted over and tears brightened her eyes. "And hearing the gun. And- and his boots. And he was whistling. He was whistling like- like he was just... having a stroll around!"

She lapsed into tears and covered her face with her manicured hands. Ben felt bad; he hadn't expected her to recall so much about her death. Clearly the ghosts of Westfield were not the same as the ones he'd been studying the past few years. He moved over to the couch so he could put his arm around her shoulders. She leaned into his embrace and wept on his side for a little while.

When the crying jag had run its course she sat up and reached for one of the tissues from the box on the coffee table. "I'm sorry," she sniffled.

"Oh, don't be," Ben reassured. He rubbed her back gently. "That's what therapists specialize in: We're great shoulders to cry on. It's part of the job description."

She gave him a teary chuckle and delicately blew her nose. The she looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. She was so vulnerable and beautiful. He brushed the line of her jaw, removing a tear she'd missed. Her cheeks pinked delicately and she glanced away briefly. When her eyes met his again the invitation was clear. Her plump lips parted slightly.

There was a split second where Ben acknowledged that he was going to do something he shouldn't. And then he was kissing her. And she kissed back with a vengeance that surprised him. Her slender arms circled his neck and they sank into the couch together. This time when his hand went up that short, pleated skirt it wasn't just in his mind. He palmed soft, warm girl-flesh and nipped at her lower lip, sucking it into his mouth briefly before thrusting his tongue into her sweet mouth again. Oh, God, she tasted like heaven.

Petting turned to groping turned quickly to stripping the bare minimum of clothing required to make sex possible. Her cotton panties got hooked on her left sneaker on their way down; neither of them cared. He went down on her, tonguing her in ways she'd never experienced with Kyle. Ben had her writhing and moaning so quickly it gave him rush of dominance. He didn't let up till she came and when she did he moved in for the kill. He mounted her, groaning in her ear as he penetrated her.

She moaned again, sweet and soft. She wrapped her athletic legs around his middle, clinging to him as he set into a gentle rocking rhythm. He was strongly tempted to just ravish her; he could feel that she was the type of girl who would like it. But he took his time. He wanted to make love, not fuck. He wanted Chloe to want him again. So he treated her like a lover, not a convenience. He kissed and nibbled and murmured her beauty and worth to her. When he felt like he was getting close to orgasm he stopped. His heart was pounding furiously.

"I'm about to cum," he whispered. "Do you want me to pull out?"

Of course they didn't have to worry about pregnancy. It was a respect thing, a hold-over notion from his own youth. She shook her head and smiled a dreamy little smile. He smiled back, kissed her and kept going. The climax was amazing. Ben saw stars. It was sweeter than Christmas candy.

"Ben!" Hayden shouted from the doorway. "What the FUCK?!"

He pulled away from Chloe and hastily shoved his dick back in his pants, zipping up even as he rose from the couch. He tried to shield the girl from Hayden's view as she stalked closer, not that it mattered much now.

"Hayden," he said, voice cracking. "Just calm down."

"Calm DOWN?!" she yelled, wild-eyed. The light fixture overhead trembled. "You want me to calm down when I just saw you fucking that little whore!?"

The older girl stopped just on the other side of the coffee table. Behind Ben, Chloe grabbed her panties and curled up in Ben's shadow to quickly wrestle them on. Hayden's rage terrified the cheerleader.

"Hayden," said Ben more sternly. "Back off! She didn't know about you."

Pain flashed across Hayden's face and she clutched her middle like he'd just punched her in the stomach. Of course Ben hadn't told the girl about her. He never told anyone anything about her. Ever. She whimpered and turned away, unable to straighten. She thought she'd won. Ben was out of his wife's room. He'd been sleeping with Hayden again. She had something that she could believe was his baby. But it was all a lie. A big fat lie she'd told herself. Just like before. She sobbed, a wretched sound that rose to a wail.

"Why do you keep doing this to me!?" she screamed, turning on him. "All I ever did was love you!"

He took a step toward her, feeling badly, but she retreated quickly. She didn't want him to touch her.

"Hayden, you're bleeding," said Ben, as gently as he could.

She didn't understand what he meant. Sometimes she would cough up blood when she was upset but that was nothing unusual. Then she looked down. Her jeans were soaked with blood that stemmed from her crotch. There was a lot of blood. She swayed. Then she fell over in a dead faint.

Ben went over to her and looked down at her sympathetically. Then he looked over at Chloe. The girl was curled up, wide-eyed and frightened. "You should go," he said in that same gentle tone. "Before she comes around. You'll be at Westfield tonight?"

The cheerleader nodded, her dark ponytail bobbing with the motion.

"Go on," he urged, still gentle. "I'll see you later this evening. All right?"

She hesitated then nodded again. Then she got up and hurried to and out the door. Ben watched her go then he crouched down next to the fallen college girl. He took Hayden's chin in his hand and turned her head to one side and then the other. He sighed.

"You're a problem I can't afford to have anymore, Hayden."

He lifted her then and took her out of the office and down to the basement.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

The name of this chapter is what Lucy in the comic _Peanuts_ (Charlie Brown) had written on her Psychiatrist's Booth. It's also a poke at Ben's naughtiness.

This was another one of those chapters where I was caught talking out loud to Ben, telling him not to be such a creep. Obviously he didn't listen to me. I'm so conflicted about him. He's a grade A womanizer and he does all kinds of unsavory things in the name of investigating ghosts and their mental makeup. And yet he's not completely off base. He does manage to help some people. And he's definitely learned quite a lot about how ghosts work. I just wish he would stop being such a creep!

For the record: Mr. Cannavo is a bit of a nod to Mr. Schuester in _Glee_. Since the folks who make _American Horror Story_ are behind both shows, it had to happen.

So. Next chapter is it: Westfield, 1994. You can sew it in with the other scenes in this chapter to get the full picture of what happened that day. I have a timeline. If anyone's interested in seeing it, just write me and I'll send you a copy. I couldn't find a good place to stick it into the actual episode and it really was so I could keep straight what happened when. But I know some of you might want to see it.

Thanks for the reads and the reviews. I know it's difficult to find pleasant things to say about such unpleasant subject matter but I appreciate the comments. They help shape the outcome of this saga.


	4. Chapter 4 - Horror High

_Rare warning:_ This chapter gives a brief but realistic description of a school shooting, as written by someone who knows way too much about the subject. Take that for what you will.

I played a lot of KMFDM, Gravity Kills, and Drowning Pool while writing this chapter. You could throw on Pumped Up Kicks by Foster the People and/or Youth of the Nation by P.O.D. too. It's all good.

* * *

**1994 - April**

"Ta-dah!" Tate fanfared as he entered Adelaide's room.

He strode across the room,clear to the far wall and back to stand in front of her. He struck a significant pose with his chin nobly raised. Then he smiled, dimples showing. "What do you think?"

Addie thoughtfully patted her chin with the fingers of one hand. "I think you look great!"

His smile got even bigger. "Yeah? I guess those modeling classes mama made me take were good for something." He looked down at himself. "I don't know... I think maybe the gloves're too much. Even without the fingers... I don't know. I think I'm gonna ditch them. It's too hot for them anyway."

Addie made a face. "I like them."

"Me too," he agreed. "But it really is too hot. Especially with the coat. This is real wool, you know."

He straightened the lapels of the long coat he wore. It was something he found in the attic, something Constance had held onto from her acting days, perhaps. It was a museum-quality Union soldier's frock coat. There was just something about it that Tate liked, even though he didn't feel all that strongly about the Yankee side of the Civil War.

Beneath the coat he had on a t-shirt, his favorite black hoodie and the black cargo pants he'd picked up last weekend at the sporting goods store. And, of course, his Doc Martens - the symbol of Euro-trash punk rebellion worldwide. His were the real ones, the ones made in England. Not those piece of shit wanna-be cheap Chinese knock-offs.

He did another little turn, coat tails flaring, and pretended to pull out a gun. He pumped the imaginary barrel and acted like he was aiming. "Boom!"

Adelaide giggled at his play-acting. "You look like a movie star."

"No flash photography or autographs, please," he said with plenty of false drama. He smiled and tugged off the gloves. He shoved them in a pocket. His hands felt better. For one thing his snake ring wasn't poking him in the knuckle anymore. "Yeah," he decided. "I'm ditching the gloves."

"Why're you getting all dressed up anyway?" Addie asked, nose crinkling with curiosity.

He shrugged off the coat and draped it over the back of her study chair. "I'm practicing."

"For what?"

"For World War T. The Noble War," he said. Then he eyed his t-shirt. "I think I'm going to wear a black one instead of white."

Addie nodded. "Yeah. White's too... white. You look better in black."

"You think?"

She nodded again. "Definitely."

"Black it is then," he grinned.

...

From all the rest I single out you, having a message for you,  
You are to die-let others tell you what they please, I cannot prevaricate,  
I am exact and merciless, but I love you-there is no escape for you.

_To One Shortly to Die_ - Walt Whitman

...

Everywhere Tate looked, people were running. The hall was crowded like any other school day but the other students were scrambling in every direction - every direction away from him. They'd seen his uniform and it had worked: They were afraid.

The weapon he carried was cold, heavy. The smell of gun oil and spent powder filled his nose; under that was the tangy, coppery scent of blood. The black t-shirt he wore hid the mess of gore and blowback residue much better than the white shirt would have.

There were so many people running from him that he couldn't pick a target. He didn't need to. All he had to do was walk and they fled. His Doc Martens were clunky and slowed him down. He tried to chase after a small group of fleeing girls but the stiff leather boots weren't meant for athletic activity. It was like trying to run with boxes on his feet. So he had to stalk instead of chase.

The halls cleared out quickly. There were backpacks and shoes scattered all over the place where people had fled without stopping to pick up their dropped items. It was weird seeing so many shoes laying around, abandoned. When he imagined this moment, he hadn't thought about things like shoes beyond what he would wear with his outfit.

He rounded the corner of the main hall and came face to face with a teacher who was running his way. The man had come from the cafeteria where he'd been racing to evacuate students, spreading the word that there was a shooter in the school. He stopped immediately when he saw Tate.

The teacher put his hands up. "I have a family," he said. It was a lie but he remembered _Silence of the Lambs_ and how killers would find it harder to hurt their intended victim if said victim made themselves more human; easier to relate to.

Unfortunately for him, he picked the wrong subject.

Tate shot him in the chest. The man got a surprised look on his face and crumpled to the floor. Blood spread out under him. Tate moved a little closer and nudged him with the toe of his boot. When the man groaned Tate shot him again, this time in the head. Then he moved on. He was heading toward the library without conscious intent. It was a familiar place in a school that felt so unfamiliar at the moment. It was just like a dream.

He passed a bank of phones; one was off the hook and swaying but he paid it no mind. The girl hiding in the bathroom right beside it prayed that her mother, who she'd been hysterically trying to tell what was happening, wouldn't speak loudly enough through it to alert the passing killer. Her prayers were answered, by luck if not God.

Ahead Tate saw movement. He shot at the darting forms and one of them collapsed. The other got away. Tate kept going. When he rounded the next corner a whole group of people ran screaming the other direction. They'd heard gunfire but had been disoriented by the echoes and had gone the wrong way. He fired into the panicking flock several times but only one of them dropped.

Tate thought it would be fun, watching them run. He loved to scare people - it always gave him such a giddy rush. But he was too amped up to feel a rush now. The drugs in his system were fizzing too much in his head and veins for him to feel anything more than that. The world kept popping in and out of darkness. He'd be in one place then he'd blink and he'd find himself in another area of the school entirely. It was like sleep walking. Each person he shot should have been another victory but he didn't feel anything. Nothing at all. No satisfaction, no remorse. He felt nothing but a growing sense of disappointment and the electrocuted buzz of the drugs.

He forced his way into the library. He could hear them in there, whispering in fear from their lurking places. They were scared. He felt nothing, though he wanted to. He tried whistling. You had to feel something if you were whistling. He picked a song he associated with vengeful bloodshed. But the tune did nothing for him. Nothing.

He wanted very badly to feel something. Anything. That was the whole point: To feel. He wanted to feel satisfied. Vindicated. Righteous. He wanted _them_ to feel how he had felt every day he'd attended school at Westfield. He wanted them to feel punished for not accepting him. For making him hate who he was. He wanted them to see what they'd turned him into. But he could tell they weren't getting it. The fear they felt was nothing without understanding the anger and the suffering and feeling like your head was going to rip apart from being so full of black stuff. They would never understand.

"Why?!"

The girl's scream penetrated the wall that the snorted powder had put between him and humanity. That one question assured him that they didn't understand. He thought about giving her an answer but it would take too long and no matter what he said, she wouldn't get it. He could tell by her tears that she was too much of the world to ever accept the why. She was too locked in her own blind existence. Even if he told her why, she just wouldn't get it. She was too hysterical, too flesh and blood to comprehend.

So he shot her too, freeing her from her meat cage. She wouldn't have to feel anything now. No fear, no pain, no judgment or pressure or guilt or hate or isolation or anything. She was as free as he was now.

He blinked and some kid under the copier was talking to him. He blinked again and the school was behind him. He was heading for the alley behind the school where all the smokers used to go. No one was there now. He was all alone. He blinked and he was in his room. The SWAT team was filling it up while his mother screamed somewhere behind them. And then he saw Nora. And, for the first time all day - for the first time in months - he felt peace.

**...**

**2018 - October 31, around noon  
**

Ben shoved his hands in his pockets as he crossed the deserted parking lot. Even though he knew no living person could see him and there were none around anyway, he still felt weird heading into a school on a weekend when no one was there.

The school was dark inside but when he tried the door it opened freely. He had a feeling it wouldn't have opened so readily for a living person. He went inside. The hall past the second set of glass doors was even darker than it had looked from the parking lot. But he smelled the unmistakable scent of food. Cafeteria food. It smelled as about as unappetizing as it had when he'd been a teen.

Ben didn't know the layout of the school very well so he tried to orient on Chloe. It wasn't like being at the house though. This place was vast, like a network of caves. He could sense others somewhere nearby but he couldn't tell exactly where or who or how many. They were all higher up, on the second floor somewhere. So Ben took the nearest staircase up.

He found himself in another long, dark hall. This one stretched past several banks of lockers as well as a compliment of doors he assumed led to classrooms. Ben started down the hall and suddenly there she was. She looked exactly like she had the last time two times he saw her, right down to her short skirt and bouncy ponytail. It occurred to him that her wound wasn't the only thing that was frozen in the moment.

She met him midway between a group of double-stacked lockers. "Hi," she smiled shyly.

"Hey, Chloe," he said. "I am so sorry about earlier. Hayden... She's trapped in the house too. A lot of us are. She's kind of a hot-head. I hope she didn't scare you."

"I'm all right," the girl said. She didn't want to admit how badly rattled she'd been. "Did... Did Tate kill both of you too?"

Ben shook his head quickly. "Oh, no. Some maniacs who broke into my house killed me. He didn't kill Hayden either." He decided not to burden her with the complicated details of whose fault Hayden's death was.

"Is... Is she mad at us?" Chloe asked.

Ben smiled reassuringly and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Don't worry about her. She and I had a real long talk. She won't bother you."

... ...

_In the very back of the basement there was a small, windowless crypt of a room. It was originally intended as a panic room in case of home invasion but Charles had hollowed it out to store the souls of the women he'd destroyed for Hayden. Brilliant surgeon that he was, Dr. Montgomery found use for the tortured souls by stitching them together and binding them to a corporeal form as one grotesquely functioning unit. The melding process was excruciatingly painful for the ghosts and if their deaths hadn't driven them mad, sharing control over a malformed semi-physical body surely did._

_It was into this mass that Charles inserted Hayden. It was his hope that her drive and anger would give the beast purpose. So he made her the dominant portion of the centipede-like monstrosity. Then he sealed her and her body-sisters in the chamber until he had need of them. _

... ...

Chloe smiled up at Ben, timid and sweet. Ben couldn't resist. He had to kiss her. She let him and, like before, she returned the gesture with enthusiasm. In short order her back was against the lockers and his hand was up her skirt again and then down in her panties, making her gasp and moan so deliciously. It didn't take long to get her off. Ben's cock was straining hard against his pants. He freed it with a quick tug at his fly. He didn't bother trying to take her panties off this time. He just tugged them to the side, grabbed one of her thighs and shoved himself in.

She moaned, a sound that made him only want her more. The locker door behind her rattled as he fucked her. He wasn't so gentlemanly this time but she didn't want a gentleman and he knew it. She scratched at his back with her manicured nails and she nipped at his neck and lips. It was fiery-hot sex, a taboo that he never could have gotten away with if he was alive.

They were so wrapped up in the moment that neither of them noticed Kyle down at the end of the hall and he was too stunned to do anything but stare for several moments. Then he turned and ran. He didn't stop running till he was all the way down in the courtyard. There he collapsed on one of the stone benches, put his hands over his face and cried. It didn't last long and when the fit passed he sat there glaring into the courtyard, cracking his knuckles.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

I know from personal experience that Doc Martens are not good shoes to walk in, let alone run in. And a wool frock coat, no matter what time of year, is really hot indoors.

The name of this chapter is a tribute to the first horror movie I ever saw in a theater - _Return to Horror High_. Dr. Montgomery's latest monster is a blatant nod to _The Human Centipede_. The sequel sucked but the original was the freakiest thing I've seen in a while. Even freakier were the Etsy things I saw later that were inspired by the movie. But that's another weird story entirely.

More apologies for Ben and his creepiness. He just won't let up. He doesn't get to be in the next chapter. I'm turning that over to Tate's family, old and new, as they all find out about his plans for going to Westfield. Chad, Patrick and Constance all get a chance to have their say about the whole matter. Will it make a difference? You'll have to come back in a few days to find out.


	5. Chapter 5 - Family Intervention

**2018 - October 31, late morning  
**

Patrick brought the bag of smaller pumpkins into the kitchen; the larger pumpkins he left on the porch where the cab driver had helped place them. Pat wasn't concerned with gourds at the moment. He set the bag down on the island and went to find Chad. The black-haired man was easy to locate: He was just in the dining room, still shaving the first pumpkin he'd been working on all morning.

Chad glanced over when he entered the room. He was only going to glance but when he saw Patrick's expression and caught the vibe he was putting off, Chad put his scraping tool down.

"What's wrong?" he asked with a touch of concern.

"Tate's going to Westfield on Halloween."

"Oh," said Chad. "_That_. Yes, I heard. Going to go put some pesky spirits to rest." He said it like he didn't believe it would work. He picked up his tool again and started to shave pumpkin shell. "Did you get the large pumpkins like I asked?"

"Chad!" Patrick said. "He's going to _Westfield_! The place where he killed fifteen people!"

Chad looked over, brows high. "And?"

Pat felt a familiar wash of frustration. Why was it that everything he found important, Chad always didn't? "And he shouldn't!"

"Why not?" said Chad. He propped himself with one hand on the table. "It's his history to sort out."

Patrick stared at him.

Chad lowered his chin a little. "It's not like he's going to die in there."

"That's not the point!"

"Then what _is_ the point?' Chad demanded, slamming his shaving tool down on the tabletop. "What? You want to _stop_ him? You go do it yourself!"

"I just thought-"

"No, you didn't!" Chad was close to yelling. "You never think about anyone but yourself! You're not even thinking about him now! You're thinking about how YOU'LL feel if something happens to him!"

He turned away then and put both hands on the table to steady himself. Then he launched into his tired old internal 'I will not cry' mantra. Pat stood there feeling very helpless. He needed someone in his corner. And what he had was a screaming queen about to fall to pieces in the midst of pumpkin peels.

He passed a hand over his face and looked away. "I'm going with him," he said quietly.

Chad looked over, so surprised he forgot about crying. "What?"

"I'm going with him."

Chad frowned and straightened up. "Why?"

Pat 's lips tightened. "Because he needs me." He paused. "He needs us."

The dark-haired man's expression echoed that of his estranged husband. He stood there for several long seconds, gaze locked with Patrick's. Then he sighed heavily.

"I_ wanted_ a baby. I _could _have had late night feedings and shit-filled diapers. But noooo. That would be too _easy_ for Chad Warwick. No, _I_ get stuck with the school shooter with more fucking baggage than LAX." He wiped his hands on his apron and arched his brows at Patrick. "Well. We'd better go shopping. If you think I'm going there without a bullet-proof vest, you're insane."

...

After giving it a lot of thought Tate decided he should tell his mother about his plan to go to Westfield. He wasn't sure what he expected from her. It was possible it was an ego thing: He thought she might be interested. Proud, maybe? Probably not. His stomach fluttered as he stepped up onto the porch in his teen aspect. He didn't know why he was nervous except that the last time he'd seen his mother things had gone so very badly.

He didn't want to apologize. He didn't want to deal with any of the last time. He hoped she felt the same way. Sometimes she did. Sometimes she didn't. When he got to the porch he paused, nerves overcoming him. He felt like he was walking into a trap even though it was his idea to come. He braced himself and entered the house. He didn't think to use the doorbell because it was his mother's house. He hadn't gone there very often over the years but he still thought of her property as his.

The first person he saw was the priest. The guy was sitting on the loveseat in the front room with a very thick, very old-looking book in his lap. He looked surprised to see Tate and set his book aside.

"Hello," Father Jeremiah said, friendly despite the unexpected intrusion. "Tate, isn't it?"

The teen nodded and stopped in the center of the room. He eyed the priest. "Why are you here all the time?"

"I help your mother care for Michael," he said.

"Don't you have a house of your own?"

Father Jeremiah smiled. "No. I have very little by way of worldly possessions."

"Yeah, I like to travel light, too," Tate said without any thought behind the words. "Where's Constance?"

"She's in the sitting room," said Jeremiah. He had that impression again that he'd met the teen before somewhere, in some note-worthy circumstance. It was an aggravating sense given he couldn't attach it to anything and it kept occurring.

"Thanks," Tate grunted and headed that way.

And there she was, sitting on the longer of the two couches crowded in the room. She was doing needlepoint on one of those wooden wheels. Tate shifted nervously in the doorway.

"Come on in," said Constance, jabbing her needle into the trapped cloth. "No sense comin' over here if you're not goin' to talk to me."

He came the rest of the way in and went over to the short couch. He sat on the edge and knit his fingers between his knees. The sleeves of his sweater almost swallowed his hands. "Mama, I'm... I'm going to Westfield." It felt good to just dump it out there like that, no beating around the bush.

She glanced up but didn't stop stitching. "Why would you want to go and do a foolish thing like that for?"

He squeezed his fingers together tighter. The snake ring on his thumb bit into his knuckle. "I'm trying to fix things."

"Fix things." She nodded but it was a staccato movement. A bitter smile tugged one side of her mouth. She looked back to her needlepoint, pushing the needle through more viciously. "You think you're just gonna' to 'fix things' by marchin' up to that school, cryin' a few crocodile tears and sayin' you're sorry?"

"Maybe," Tate frowned.

"On Halloween."

Why did everyone keep saying that like it was a super big deal? "Why not? Nobody'll be there except the dead people."

"You'll miss trick-or-treat with Michael," she said archly, eyes on her needlepoint. "He's been lookin' forward to it for weeks."

"You said I couldn't see him again unless I took Doctor Harmon's drugs," he said, picking at a cuticle.

"I said I wasn't bringin' him over to that house anymore unless you did," she corrected stiffly. "That's the trouble with you, Tate. You always hear what you want to and not what's bein' said."

He chewed on his thumbnail and tried to remember the conversation. He thought she'd said what he said but now he wasn't so sure. He was really upset that day and he never remembered well when he got really upset. Tears stung his eyes and he tried to blink them back. He didn't want to disappoint Michael and he did like going trick or treating last year, even if it was kind of silly.

"I could go after."

She laughed, once, derisively. "Right. That'll happen."

"Before?"

She leveled a steely gaze at him and he noticed she looked less old than he remembered. Maybe he was misremembering that too.

"Tate," she said, finally setting the wooden hoop down in her lap. "You can either spend Halloween with your family or you can go spend it with those teenagers."

"Mama," he objected, hurt all over again. "You're making it sound like it's a party! I killed those people! That's what everybody keeps saying!"

"Oh, you killed them," she said in a low and serious way. "Which is why they're not gonna care what you say or do if you go there."

She got up then and her needlepoint fell to the sofa. She crossed the short distance between them and sat beside her son. She stroked his hair back behind an ear. He eyed her suspiciously, a bit afraid that she might slap him.

"Honey, you know Halloween's the one time the spirit world and the real world cross over," she crooned gently. "Why would you go there the one night when they might actually be able to hurt you?"

He looked at her, dark eyes lined with unshed tears. "Because I have to."

"Jesus H. Christ, Tate!" she exclaimed, exasperated.

She got up and paced a few steps away, her satiny house robe flowing behind her. She grabbed a cigarette and lit one, then turned to glare at her son balefully, her own eyes bright with tears now. He looked back at her unhappily. The sight of her fighting back tears made his fall.

"You're not goin' to that school," she said and the words were a guillotine.

"Mama..!"

"NO, Tate." She snapped. Smoke swirled serpent-like around her face as she exhaled. "You're not goin' and that's _final_." She sucked on her cigarette like she was daring him to say something. When he didn't, she said loftily: "You're goin' trick-or-treatin' with Michael so you better be sure Chad has somethin' for you to wear."

He slumped into the folds of his sweater and hugged himself. Tears dripped on his lap and he sniffled wetly. "Can I go now?"

She thought about telling him no just to make him suffer for upsetting her but she wanted to come out of the situation the good guy. "Go on. We'll be over there at six."

Tate left hunched into himself so much that he barely came up to her shoulder when he brushed past her, despite being in his teen form. He practically ran back to the house then quick-stepped up to the attic. He tucked himself into his hidey-hollow there between the walls and cried till he couldn't cry anymore. It took a couple of hours before he surfaced from his personal misery. His eyes had that swollen feeling and his sides hurt.

He didn't feel any better for the extended bout of angst. He heaved a deep sigh and thought about sleeping. But he was thirsty and starting to feel cramped. His hidey-hole was great for bawling in private or masturbating without fear of Chad intrusion but it wasn't much good for anything else. So he finally emerged.

The air in the attic was almost sweet compared to the dusty, stale stuff inside the walls. And as soon as Tate was fully back in it, a red rubber ball hit his foot. He tracked the direction it had rolled from and smiled faintly. He picked it up and carried it back into the shadows where he plopped down on the floor next to the old broken high-backed wheelchair. It hadn't always been broken; he and Addie had busted the wheel years ago racing it around the other junk.

"Hey, Beau," he said. He rolled the ball back into the darkest point of the attic. "Know what?"

Of course Beau didn't say anything but he rolled the ball back. Tate caught it.

"I'm going back to school," he said and rolled the ball back once more. He laughed and a few hot tears leaked out. Funny. He thought he was empty of them. "Mama thinks I'm not."

The ball came back and he heard Beau grunt. Tate caught the red toy and rolled it around between his palms.

"I don't know. I guess maybe I should just... Fuck. I don't know." He sighed and rolled the ball back again. The ball bounced against his leg. He picked it up again. More tears dripped off his chin. "What should I do, Beau?"

He rolled the ball to his older brother and looked into the shadows. He could see Beauregard move around in the darkness. His brother whined and rocked in place. He didn't roll the ball back to Tate. So Tate went to him. He put his arms around his big brother and cried. He got Beau's tattered t-shirt wet and a bit snotty. It wasn't an intentional slight; it was just how things had always been between them. With as messy as Beau was, getting close to him meant being messy too.

...

**2018 - October 31, noon**

Chad and Patrick were both sitting at the dining table when Tate entered, in child form. Chad had called him down but there wasn't any food on the table so it couldn't be for a meal. The way the dark-haired man had his hands folded on the table hinted at trouble so Tate got nervous. He stayed in the doorway. He didn't know what he'd done wrong but he figured it was safest to keep his distance till he knew.

"Come sit down," Chad said, unlacing his fingers to motion to the chair across from Patrick. Chad was, of course, in his usual seat at the head of the table.

Tate came over, moving cautiously and with many wary glances at both of his fosters. "What?" he asked as he slid into his seat.

"A little birdie told us that you've got plans for Halloween," said Chad, lacing his fingers again.

Tate shifted a little. "Jesus. Nothing gets by you guys."

Chad smiled tightly. "You're only just now figuring that out?" He lifted his chin, trying to rise above the urge to bicker. "Patrick and I are going with you."

Pat gave Chad a quick, curious glance. It had been his impression that they were going to ask Tate about accompanying him, not tell.

Tate looked from one man to the other. "You are?" he asked, brows scrunching.

"That's what families _do_, Tate," Chad said in a tone that suggested everyone knew that. "They face problems _together_."

Tate fidgeted and picked at the sleeve of his pullover. Families face problems together. "That's a new one on me," he smiled but there were tears falling out of his eyes all around it, robbing it of its devil-may-care attitude. He wanted to add more, to be funnier, so they wouldn't see how much such a simple statement could affect him but he couldn't think of anything.

"Yes, well," dismissed Chad. "No shocker there."

Patrick gave him a Look. Then, to Tate he said, "What are you planning to do when you get there?"

Tate picked at his sleeve some more, tugging a loose thread free to wrap around the tip of his finger. "I don't know. I don't know if I'm going."

Patrick and Chad exchanged glances then both of them looked at Tate. He fidgeted some more.

"Mama said I couldn't go. She wants me to go trick-or-treating with Michael."

Pat sat back in his chair with a disgusted air and Chad rolled his eyes.

"Why did you tell _her_ you were going?" Chad asked.

Tate shrugged. "She's my mother."

"Marginally," muttered Chad. He shot Patrick a glare when his significant other kicked his foot under the table.

"I'm supposed to be at Westfield at seven o'clock but she wants to meet at six," Tate went on. He'd learned to tune out some of the comments Chad made. It was just easier that way than arguing with every little nasty thing he said. "If I don't show up, they're gonna think I chickened out."

"Who cares what those George Romero rejects think?" Chad wondered. He really didn't understand. "They can't come in here. They can only come around at Halloween. It's not that hard to avoid them. You did it for years."

"I don't want to avoid them!" Tate exploded, pounding one small fist on the table. Despite his size, there was enough force to the blow to rattle the harvest centerpiece Chad had arranged. "I've spent the last thirty years avoiding them and I'm tired of it!"

"Twenty-four," said Chad.

"What?" Tate blinked. More tears fell.

"Twenty-four years," Chad supplied. "Not thirty."

Tate rolled his eyes and sagged in his chair. "What_ever_! I'm done!"

"So you're going to go?" Pat interjected. His deep voice was a strange comfort in the sea of Tate's stormy feelings.

"I don't know," the boy said. He shoved a finger in his mouth to nip viciously at the ragged cuticle while he thought about it. "If I do, mama'll come. I just know it. I can't have her coming to Westfield. Not..." He shook his head, not even wanting to picture it. "She can't."

Chad propped his elbows on the table, laced his fingers again and used them as a raised platform to support his chin. His eyes met Pat's and they exchanged a few looks meant only for them. When Chad finally looked at Tate again, he did it with a dramatic sigh.

"All right," he said. "Here's the deal. We'll run interference for you this _once_. _Just_ this once. Because I am _not_ going to make it a habit of putting myself between you and your mother."

Tate frowned, not following.

"We'll distract Constance," said Patrick. "So you can get to Westfield."

Tate was floored, both by the offer and by the fact that he couldn't figure out how they were going to pull it off. "How?"

Chad smiled. It was a tight smile but it was laced with self-satisfaction. "Leave the details to us. You worry about what you're going to do when you're knee-deep in the prom of the living dead."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

"Knee-Deep in the Dead" was a the first episode of the game _Doom_, set in the UAC facilities. Eric Harris made a _Doom II_ wad (level) called UAC Labs that was a single-person level that was stocked with all kinds of weapons but got so thick with monsters so quickly that you couldn't possibly win. You end up on a tall podium in the center of an arena filled with a veritable sea of the worst creatures in the game - hundreds of them - and they all want to kill you. And then the podium goes down...

_Night of the Living Dead_ was created by George Romero (Chad referenced him and the living dead). _Prom Night_ was a cheesy slasher film about a killer at a prom dance. Interestingly, the Knee-Deep episode of Doom was largely designed by a guy named John Romero - no relation to George. His bloody head on a stick is a monster in _Doom II_ and has his voice played backward saying "To win you have to kill me".

The scene with Tate and Constance was somewhat inspired by a scene from the first episode of _Bates Motel_. Another fun coincidence: Just as I was writing that last sentence there, the TV behind me started playing the music from _Psycho_ - a pistachio commercial that said Norman Bates does it in the shower. Haha.

Next chapter: Going back to Westfield. Brace yourself. And check out my Playlist on my Profile here if you haven't.


	6. Chapter 6 - Return to Westfield

_(Author's Note: The song _Silence_ by Lucia goes really well to this first piece.)_

* * *

**October 31, evening**

The sun was setting. It sparkled on the waves and made them impossible to look at for long. Tate sat in the sand, watching the tide roll in and out. The steady sound soothed him. It was like a heartbeat. Being outside the house and alone felt strange; naked, almost. It was invigorating and intimidating at once.

His thoughts drifted with the waves. He wondered - if he jumped in and started swimming - how far he could get before the house reeled him back in like a fish. He wondered if his mother and Addie would miss him if he swam so far away the mansion couldn't reach him. Adelaide wrote him sometimes from her special college. Mama had told him that's where she was. She brought him Addie's letters when they came but he could tell that she was growing distant. Living in England made it impossible for her to visit and Tate couldn't go to her. Losing her was a slow, dull, achy process. It was something he tried not to think about and he didn't want to think it about now.

Tate threw a rock into the surf then hugged his knees. He'd thought coming to the beach would make him happy but it just made him feel lonely. He thought about showing his favorite spot to Patrick and Chad. Then he imagined Chad complaining about getting sand in his loafers. Tate smiled. He knew that the man would have the sense to wear appropriate footwear to the beach but he still found the mental image amusing. He suspected Pat liked the beach. He seemed like the sort of guy who would.

But the beach wasn't very friendly this time of year. It was cold, gray, and deserted. It was dead. Like Tate.

The sun disappeared under the water, leaving a hazy smudge of blood red light on the horizon where it vanished. The waves were black.

**...**

The sun had just set when the flood of trick-or-treaters hit the streets. The air was cool and promised to get colder once the sun set so many groups wanted to get an early start. At around six Constance and Father Jeremiah brought Michael over to Murder House costumed and ready to collect candy. Father Jeremiah was dressed as a traditional Benedictine monk. Constance was a witch in heels impractical for walking long distances. Michael was a dragon. They were joined by two black-cloaked figures wearing Guy Fawkes masks, one tall and one Michael's size. The adults exchanged greetings.

"Are you ready to go collect some candy?" Constance asked the boys.

Michael cheered but Ethan said nothing. He just folded his arms. Constance arched a brow at him. She thought about calling him out on his behavior but if the worst he was going to do was give her the silent treatment, she would count herself lucky. The small band joined the rest of the pedestrians and set off down the street to pester neighbors for goodies.

From his bedroom window Tate watched them leave. He wondered how long it would take his mother to figure out that it wasn't him in the costume. He didn't expect it would fool her for long, even if Chad kept quiet the whole time. But he hoped it would buy him enough time to do what he needed to do.

The alarm clock went off, assaulting the air with _Bodies_, a song that only a deaf person could sleep through. Tate slapped the 'off' button to stop the chaotic noise. He'd set it a half hour earlier than he'd told the others he was going to leave so he could get a head start. As much as he appreciated and even wanted the company, this was something he had to do alone.

He went over to the bed and dropped to his knees. He fished a shotgun out, checked the shells in the chamber and put the weapon on the bed. Then he pulled out the second one. He checked and then dropped her alongside her mate. Mickey and Mallory, named after the shooters in _Natural Born Killers_. Then he grabbed the handgun - John Dillinger - and checked it as well. Loaded and ready for action. He put the safety on and stuffed Dillinger into the back of his waistband. He put Mickey and Mallory in the duffle bag on top the extra ammunition.

He shrugged his Union frock coat on and pulled his hoodie out of the neck it so it wasn't smashed uncomfortably against his shoulders. He would've liked a Rebel coat better but it was what had been available in the attic. It felt good to wear it again. Despite the fact that he was completely sober, he felt wired. Electrified. He was a bolt of lightning straight from the hand of God. It was amazing to discover he felt even more powerful than the day he set off for Westfield the first time.

The memory flicker made him blink. He shoved the thought away quickly. He didn't want to think about first times. Or memories. Just about what he needed to do now. He couldn't afford to think about anything else. If he did, he would panic and run. He was already sweating profusely. Or maybe that was just the layered clothes making him do that.

He shouldered his duffle bag and pushed the window open. He climbed out and half-hopped, half-willed himself down to the ground. Tate took a quick glance around even as he was hurrying across the lawn. His pulse was quickening. At any moment any one of his self-appointed guardians might catch him and shit would really hit the fan. From all ends. It was both a source of extreme fear and an intense high.

He ran the whole way to school.

...

_(Author's Note: Play the album version - not video version - of _Radioactive_ by Imagine Dragons here, for best effect.)_

Tate stood on the crest of the dead hill overlooking the parking lot of the high school. All was quiet. The building lay before him like a fortress to be conquered. It was a presence unto itself that transcended the people within it. It was a living entity - a hostile being - and it was his nemesis. The house that held him was a conscious thing; Westfield High was a conscious thing too. And it hated him as much as he hated it. It poisoned everything that went in it, stripped the living of their color and life and souls and spat out more poison in the form of homogenous, politically-correct zombies.

They stared each other down. Mist hazed the cold October air. It was silent as death. The school's black window-eyes locked with Tate's, glassy and glittering and full of loathing. He could feel its desire to uproot itself and chase him down. But even if it could, he wouldn't run. He was done running. He reached into the duffle bag and grabbed Mickey. He pumped the barrel and readied himself for battle.

He took a bold step forward and was hit hard from the side.

For a moment he thought he'd been struck by a car, it was that hard and fast and painful. He was knocked off his feet and hit the ground hard enough to wind him. The shotgun flew from his hand on impact. Kyle scrambled up out of the tackle with practiced ease and chased after it like it was a football.

Tate rolled to his side and tried to catch his breath. He tried to tell himself he didn't need to catch his breath since he was dead but that didn't work. It never did. Kyle grabbed the gun up out of the dry grass and turned it on Tate, who put his hands up.

"Wait!" he croaked.

Kyle didn't wait. He shot Tate in the head. Then he shot him in the heart with the second round.

...

Violet hugged herself and glanced down the street though she didn't expect to see Tate. Not really. And she didn't. There were a few groups of trick-or-treaters still prowling the dark sidewalks.

"They're not here, dad," she said at last. She had a very bad feeling and it was making her impatient.

Ben tried to peek in through one of the dark windows of Constance's house but couldn't see anything. He didn't want to admit it but he knew she was right. They already knew Tate wasn't in the old Victorian either. Chad had informed him of his and Patrick's intention to play decoy for Constance so that had to be where they were: Still out leading the woman astray.

But where was Tate?

"He's at the school," Ben said. He couldn't be positive, of course, but he knew his patient well enough to make that leap. "Come on."

They left the porch and headed for Westfield.

...

Tate stirred. His chest and head hurt. A lot. He put a hand where it hurt the most and felt squishy wetness with his fingers and a wiggly tickly feeling inside his head. He snatched his hand away. He was pretty sure those were brains he was touching.

"Don't move."

He looked toward the source of the voice and saw Kyle standing over him, with Mickey trained on him. He had Tate's duffle bag too, slung over one shoulder. Tate did the sensible thing and kept still.

"Where's the shrink?" Kyle demanded down the barrel of the black weapon.

"The... shrink?" Tate responded. His head hurt a lot. It was hard to think. "Doctor Harmon?"

"Yeah," grunted Kyle. "Where is the son of a bitch?"

Tate frowned. Why was Kyle looking for Doctor Harmon? "He's... I don't know. I think he's back home."

"Where does he live?" demanded Kyle, getting testier. "Tell me where he lives!"

"Lives?" Tate squinted. Then he realized Kyle thought Ben was alive. He laughed but the sound turned to a cough. He spat up some blood.

Kyle thought Tate was laughing at him so he kicked him hard in the leg. Tate yelped and coughed up more blood.

"Where is he?!" the jock yelled, losing his temper.

"I don't know!" Tate said. "Probably on his way here!"

"You're lying," said Kyle over the gun.

"No, I'm not." Tate scooted back a little, lifting his hands to show he wasn't up to anything. He just wanted more space between himself and the other guy's feet. He was trying to heal himself and that was hard to do while being kicked. "Why're you looking for him?"

Kyle stepped forward, closing the short distance between them. He kept the gun trained on Tate's head. "You move again and I will shoot you again." They looked at each other for a long moment, then he said: "Why would he come here? Was he going to help you kill everybody again?"

"I wasn't going to kill anybody!" Even as he said it Tate knew how unbelievable that sounded.

"Just because you put a bullet in my head doesn't make me stupid," said Kyle. "Get up."

Tate got to his feet, wobbling a little. He needed time to heal but it hurt like hell when he tried to fix the head wound. It wasn't something he could do immediately - or at all if he was being forced to move around. "Where're we going?"

"To school." Kyle prodded Tate in the side with the barrel of the shotgun. "Move."

They headed down the hill to the parking lot where they crossed the long stretch of black pavement. It occurred to Tate that it was the first and only time anyone his age had walked to school with him. It just came at the cost of dying twice.

The closer they got to the lurking building, the more nervous Tate felt. This was not how he wanted to approach the thing: A prisoner with sucking head and chest wounds. But being so close let him know his idea of trying to gun the place down never would have worked. It would have been like throwing pebbles at an elephant.

"Don't you want to wait for Doctor Harmon?" Tate asked, slowing. It was easy to do slow in the heavy Doc Marten's boots he wore. "I'm sure he'll be here any minute."

"When he gets here, I'll know," said Kyle. He motioned with the shotgun to the maw of the school-creature, the twin glass front doors.

Tate looked at it warily. The last time he'd seen that vicious mouth, he'd blasted it out. The shards had cut his face but it was worth it to see the thing take such a blow. Now it grinned at him evilly, eager to gobble him up.

Kyle poked him hard in the back with the gun. Tate gathered his nerve and stepped inside the little space between the dual sets of doors. He suddenly felt like he was in juvenile detention again. He started to panic inside which made tears spring up. He did not want to cry in front of Kyle. Oh, God, no. He rolled his eyes while keeping them wide in an attempt to get rid of the tears without shedding them. It didn't work.

They passed the trophy case beside which hung the memorial plaque dedicated to the lives lost in 1994 on the school grounds. Tate caught a glimpse of his blurred reflection in the dark bronze then they were past it.

The world flickered and went bright. He was walking alone. The halls were crowded. It was daytime and he could still smell the gasoline he'd used to set Larry on fire. He heard lockers slamming and people talking loudly and suddenly Kyle was poking him in the back again. The lights flickered and went out, leaving him and the football player alone in the dark once more.

"Where are we going?" Tate vaguely recalled asking that before.

"The gym." Kyle hadn't experienced what Tate just did. The school looked as it always did, to him.

Tate snorted. "I hate gym. Can't we go to the track instead?"

"Not for class, douche-bag," said Kyle.

"What, is everybody waiting there to hang me or something?" Tate asked. He tried to make it sound light-hearted but inside he was all kinds of jangled up. Even if he couldn't die permanently he didn't want to be publicly executed.

Kyle didn't answer him. When they got to the gym, it was empty and dark, like the rest of the school. The only source of light was coming from the weight room in the back. It wasn't necessary for Kyle to prod with the shotgun for Tate to figure out where to go, but the bigger teen did anyway.

"Open it," said Kyle when they reached the door with the tiny window in it.

Tate did. Another poke to the back urged him into the room. The first thing he noticed was the smell of dust, metal and old sweat. The next thing he noticed were the three other guys lounging about the room. Two were sitting on the weight benches and a third was idly curling a dumbbell. They were all bigger than Tate. Two were football players like Kyle, pals of Douglas' that Tate had tangled with more than once back when they were all still alive. Tate thought the last guy might be on the basketball team. Maybe he was just one of the generic assholes that ran around with the jocks. He couldn't remember. All them stared at him.

"I can't believe it," the black footballer said, getting up from the bench he'd been warming. On his feet he was easily six foot tall. He even had a pencil-thin moustache he'd been nursing when he was alive. The side of his head was a bloody mess, as was his shoulder. He came over to where Kyle had Tate at gunpoint and looked down at him. "You actually got him."

"Yeah," said Kyle. "I took this off him." He lifted the shotgun then patted the bag. "And this."

"You shot him with his own gun?" grinned the shorter jock who had the dumbbell. Tate remembered his name was Lucas or Luke. "Righteous!"

The black guy, Jason, looked at the gear Kyle was holding then he looked at Tate again. He seemed on the verge of saying something but then he balled up a fist and punched the blond boy in the stomach. Tate clutched at his middle and dropped to his knees, in fresh pain. He was glad he hadn't eaten anything all day or it would have come up just then. The bigger guy kicked him in the side. Tate curled up in self-defense but no further blows came.

"What're we gonna do with him?" asked the guy who was still weight-lifting.

Kyle looked down at the balled-up teenager on the floor. "Keep him here. He said the shrink's on his way."

"On his way?" echoed Jason. "Here?"

"Yeah," said Kyle. He was holding the gun looser and no longer had it aimed at Tate. "I'm going to go find that asshole."

"Kyle-" said the guy Tate thought was a basketball player.

"Don't start with me, Josh!" Kyle snapped. It sounded like an argument they were picking back up rather than a new disagreement. "Just keep him here!" He gestured at Tate. "Okay? Can you do that? Please?"

The guy identified as Josh, a tall teen with a ruddy complexion, made a sour face but he didn't press the issue. He just shrugged. "Yeah, okay. Whatever."

"Once I've taken care of the shrink we can deal with this piece of shit." He nudged the ball of Tate with his foot. Tate didn't move. He was trying to heal as quickly as he could.

"I ain't no damned babysitter," said Luke. He dropped the dumbbell and flexed his biceps. "If there's gonna be some ass-kicking, I want in on it."

"This is between me and him," Kyle insisted, slapping his chest over the heart. "You want to kick some ass? There's one right there!" He gestured to Tate with the shotgun this time. "He's all yours."

The dark-haired jock left the weight room, taking the bag and shotgun with him. Tate stayed curled where he was. He'd missed the gist of the conversation, he was concentrating so hard. It hurt his head to heal it but he forced himself to fight through the excruciating agony. The intensity of the pain grew white-hot and then, in a brilliant flash of agony that made him groan, he felt his head squish back into proper shape. Oh, it was gross. It made him feel sick to his stomach all over again. His eyes leaked tears. But at least his brains weren't on his shoulder anymore.

Jason looked down at him, unimpressed. "What a pussy," he scoffed. He thought Tate was just cowering. "This is the fuck-nut everybody's been pissin' themselves over all these years?" He laughed, confidence growing as Tate continued to lay there. "Real fucking boogeyman. A regular God-damned Freddy Krueger."

He stooped down and grabbed hold of the back of Tate's wool coat and hauled him up by it. Tate let gravity uncurl him and met the guy's dark eyes fearlessly. He tried to put his feet on the floor but The jock was holding him a couple of inches too high.

Jason didn't see the fearlessness. All he saw were the tears. The guy smiled broadly. His teeth were super white against the chocolate brown of his skin. The right side of his head and shoulder were hamburger and his right eye was cloudy white, which made the smile particularly unsettling.

"It's payback time, bitch," he said.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

There are several types of inanimate objects that people routinely give names to. Cars, boats, and guns are the most popular. I didn't have to give it any thought when it came to naming Tate's weapons. Mickey and Mallory were the murderous main characters in _Natural Born Killers_ - a film the Columbine shooters referenced when they were planning their crime on their home videos. Tate's ring is the same one Mickey wore throughout the film. John Dillinger was the most notorious and violent of the Depression-era outlaws. He was gunned down in an alley by a group of police and federal agents after drawing a weapon when they went to arrest him. I didn't remember that till after I named the weapon, then went on Wikipedia to find out who he was.

Constance never could bring herself to tell Tate that Addie was dead but I can't imagine he would go very long without asking where she'd gotten to. In the series she seemed like she spent a lot of time in the house whether the current owners liked it or not. So I had Constance forge letters from her. It's her plan to eventually just stop writing and let Tate's memory of her fade. From her viewpoint it makes sense but I'm not sure if it's any less painful for him than finding out she's dead. But I guess it'll keep him from going berserk.

Next chapter: Kyle hunts down Ben and Violet locates Tate. Will anyone be happy with finding what they're looking for?


	7. Chapter 7 - Payback's a Bitch

Kyle got to the outer front doors at the same time Ben and Violet did. They looked at each other through the glass.

"Why does he have a gun?" Violet whispered without looking away from Kyle.

"I don't know," Ben murmured in a similar fashion.

He lifted a hand slowly to wave at the teen behind the glass. Then he reached for the door handle. When Kyle didn't do anything, Ben pulled the door open, slow and smooth.

"Hey, Kyle," he said, holding the door open. He'd made it a point to learn all of the victims' names and what they looked like, particularly the ones who kept showing up at his house.

"What do you want?" said Kyle. He shoved his foot beside the door to keep it propped open without having to free a hand.

"Is Tate here?" asked Violet.

Kyle frowned at her. "Yeah."

She shifted her weight and glanced at her dad. "Where is he?" she said to Kyle.

Ben tried to feel around for his patient but the school was still too big, too foreign, too... much of a presence. He blinked a couple of times when he realized he could feel it. He could feel the school just like he could feel the house. The shadows. They were spongy here, the way they were when he wore the Rubber Man suit at home.

"He's someplace where he can't hurt anybody."

"He wasn't going to hurt anyone," Violet objected. "He was coming to apologize."

Kyle tried to laugh but all that came out was a short, sharp sound that had the flavor of a curse word. "That's why he brought this with him?" he said, lifting the shotgun. "And the one in here." He tugged the strap of the duffle bag. "Because apologies sound so much better coming out of the barrel of a gun."

Violet's brows pinched together. "No," she said, shaking her head. "No. He wanted to make things right." He seemed so sincere when she'd spoken with him. She couldn't believe he would want to come to Westfield after all these years just to do something he could have done dozens of times over.

"Is that why his shrink's fucking my girlfriend?" the guy in the letterman jacket demanded. "Because you all want to make everything sooo much better?"

Violet's eyes widened. Then she stared at her dad.

Ben looked pained. "Oh, God," he groaned. "I didn't know. I didn't know she was your girlfriend."

"Dad?" Violet said, sounding hurt and small even to her own ears. Anger quickly surged over the new injury: Anger for her betrayed mother, anger for herself, even anger for Kyle. "Jesus-fucking-christ, _dad_!"

"I'm sorry, honey," Ben said to her, feeling the moment spiral out of control. "Kyle, I'm sorry. I swear I didn't know-"

"Yeah, you are sorry! You're a sorry piece of shit! She's seventeen!" Kyle yelled, gripping the shotgun tightly. He wanted badly to shoot the shrink. "You're an old man! What the hell!?"

Ben bristled under the apologetic surface. He forced the reaction back, smothered it under the knowledge that he was in the wrong. The effort allowed Violet a chance to speak first.

"My dad has serious issues keeping his dick in his pants," she said, ignoring the look her father gave her. "He even goes after old ladies."

"Violet!" Ben objected.

She looked at him then and he saw a strange expression, one he'd never seen in her eyes before. Ice cold.

"I don't care about his issues!" Kyle said. "He fucked my girlfriend!"

"I'm sorry-" Ben started.

But Kyle didn't want to hear it. "Some fucking shrink! You're a child molester!"

"She's not a child!" said Ben. He wasn't going to let some whelp in a football jacket lob such a personal insult at him. "She's forty!"

Kyle looked stung, then hurt. Then he was mad again. He lifted the gun and pointed it at Ben. "You wanna die?!"

"Get out of here, dad," Violet said. "Go home!"

The man looked from the football player to his daughter. He was getting only hostility from both angles. He thought he could talk Kyle down if he really wanted to but thought it might be better for all three of them if he went his own way. Ben knew when to press and when to retreat. He backed up a few steps then without another word he turned and started across the parking lot.

Violet watched him go, folding her arms loosely around her middle. Then she looked at Kyle, half expecting to see him aiming the gun at either one of them. But he wasn't. The gun was hanging from one hand loosely. He looked close to dropping it. His other hand was over his face, covering his eyes.

He was crying.

Violet stared. She didn't know what to do at first. It was weird to her when boys cried. There was a time when she had thought that was something they only did in the shower. She'd gotten used to it from Tate. But he was, in her mind, a huge exception to the rule.

"Hey," she said in a gentle tone. It was the same one she'd used on Tate the first time she saw him cry. "Don't let my dad's shit get to you. Whatever happened with him and your girlfriend... He won't be messing with you again. Believe me." She intended to personally make sure that was true. "He's already got a shit-storm at home with my mom and some other bitch. He's a fucking pervert but he won't steal your girlfriend. Most of the year he can't even leave the house."

Kyle wiped his face and looked at her funny. "Why not?"

She arched her brows at him and lowered her chin. "Because... he's dead. He can only leave the house close to Halloween."

He blinked a few times and looked past her but Ben was already gone. "Shit. I didn't know."

She tipped her head, long hair falling over her shoulder as she considered him. "You know I'm dead too, right?"

The jock looked at her with open surprise that answered her before his words did. "Oh. No. I guess not." A faint look of concern crossed his face. "Did Tate kill you too?"

She shook her head. "I won the Darwin award." She pressed her lips together at the blank reaction he gave her. "I killed myself. Accidentally OD'd on some pills." Not quite the truth but it would do.

"Why?"

Violet looked at him funny. "It was an accident." That was a lie but she really didn't want to discuss her suicide with him. Or anyone.

"Why'd you take so many?"

She stared at him. "Why do you care?"

He shrugged. "Just seems weird."

"What's so weird about it?" It wasn't the first time she'd been called weird. She wouldn't normally be bothered by it. But in relation to her death, she was.

"I don't know," he shrugged again. "Just sounds like something somebody'd do if they wanted to die. And I can't imagine why you'd want to."

She squinted at him. "That's just because you don't know me. Or my life. Think about it. Tate's my boyfriend and that," she tipped her head toward the parking lot to indicate Ben. "Is my dad."

Kyle thought about and got a really peculiar look on his face. "I... guess I see what you mean." He frowned. Then he shook his head. "No. I don't. I'd give anything to be alive. Even if I was stuck with people like that."

She laughed dryly. "You're only saying that because you're not."

He gave a short laugh of his own and shifted the gun in his hands, still holding it casually. Almost awkwardly. She suspected he didn't use one often, though he seemed to know how to hold it.

"I live with a bunch of dead high schoolers, most of them guys, with one lone teacher to keep the peace," Kyle said. "That's not exactly a piece of cake."

Violet's lips twitched in a small smile. "Must suck to be the teacher."

Kyle smiled a little too. "Mr. Cannavo's cool. He tries."

"Wasn't he the choir teacher?"

The boy nodded. "Yeah. He keeps trying to get us to form an acapella group."

The thought made Violet smile for real. "Do you ever humor him?"

Kyle grinned, blushing self-consciously. "Maybe around Christmas."

Then there was a weird, awkward moment where they both realized they were acting just like normal teens in spite of everything and they fell silent for an equally awkward stretch.

"Can I see Tate?" Violet asked finally. "Please?"

Any trace of humor or camaraderie drained from the jock's expression. "Why?"

"I just want to help sort shit out," she said honestly. "I know you guys here at Westfield... You've been wanting answers and I... I think maybe I can help you get them." She paused and offered another small, dry smile. "I speak Tate fluently."

He scratched his cheek as he considered. "Yeah. Okay. But don't try anything funny."

She lifted her hands in a defenseless pose for just an instant. "I'm just here to help."

He let her into the school then. They walked together in silence. Violet took in her surroundings as she passed through the halls. It had been years since she'd been there yet it still seemed so familiar. It was strange seeing it without people though. Or daylight. Or any light. The gloom was oppressive. Smothering.

They entered the gym and Kyle led the way to the weight room. He was not prepared for the sight that greeted him.

_(Author's Note: I've posted Chapter 7.5: Taint, which describes what happened right before Kyle and Violet got to the gym. You can find it in my Profile. Read with caution.)_

"You guys!" he exclaimed. Shock turned to horror turned to outrage. "What the fuck?!"

Violet crowded in behind him but he didn't want her to see. He gave her shoulder push. It was a gentle touch; it didn't hurt her or even knock her off balance but it sent her back several feet just like she was on wheels.

Kyle charged in and yelling followed. Violet ran back to the door and was nearly run down by a guy who barely glanced her way before taking off across the gym, sneakers squeaking as he ran. More yelling and some cursing came from the room and two more guys ran out, one laughing and one holding his pants up. Seriously concerned now, Violet tried to enter the room a third time and was nearly run over by Kyle. He caught her upper arms and moved her to the side.

"Don't go in there," he warned. "Just. Wait here."

He took off after the other guys then. Of course she couldn't just stand there. She had to know what was going on. So she went in. She didn't get far. The sheer magnitude of the horror was enough to stop her in her tracks. It was a nightmare. Tate was face-down on one of the weight benches. They'd bound his arms and legs to it with duct tape. His pants were down around his knees and there was a bloody mop handle on the floor nearby. There was a _lot_ of blood beneath the weight bench and all over Tate.

Worse for him, he was conscious when Violet entered the room. Tate saw her and felt his whole world implode. He let his head hit the padded bench and started to cry the most heart-wrenching cry of his existence. Why did it have to be _her_? She was the very last person he'd want to find him in such a state.

"Oh, my God! Tate!" Violet exclaimed, bursting into tears too.

She started toward him then realized she needed something to cut the tape with. She cast about frantically but she didn't see anything remotely helpful.

"Hold on!" she said. "I'm going to get something to cut you free!"

She left the room and pulled the door shut behind her. As fast as she could, she went to the gym teacher's office. It was hard to see through the tears and panic. She tried quick-stepping and nearly ran right into a wall. She wasn't as familiar with the dimensions of the school as she was with the house so she had to go the mortal route. The office door was locked but she didn't let that stop her. A fire extinguisher made a perfect battering ram. She used it to smash the small window in the door then reached in, unlocked it and let herself in. She rifled around till she found a pair of scissors then ran all the way back to the weight room.

When she got back, Tate was gone.

...

Kyle caught up to his friends down the hall, near the stairwell. Jason leaned against the wall, laughing uproariously. Luke buttoned his fly.

"What the fuck was that?!" Kyle demanded.

The black guy stopped laughing. "It's called revenge, Kyle."

"That-" Kyle shook his head. "That wasn't revenge! That was torture!"

Jason shrugged. "Potato, potahto. He got what he deserved."

Luke folded his arms. Josh looked down the hall. Kyle looked around at them like he was seeing them for the first time. He shook his head slowly, having a real hard time pairing his pals with what he just saw back in the weight room.

"That's just... fucked up," he said, shaking his head again.

"Fuck you, Kyle," said Luke. He didn't like being judged. "He's the reason we're stuck here. Or did you forget that?"

"That doesn't mean you go all fucking _Pulp Fiction_ on him!"

"You blew his brains out!" said Jason. "You think that makes you better than us?"

"I didn't do anything," Josh put in, raising his hand.

Luke glared at him. "Shut up, dickweed! You stood there and watched."

Josh shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I didn't do anything."

"Yeah, you're right," Kyle said to him, disgust filtering into the words. "You didn't do anything. You just stood by and let it happen."

Josh glowered. "Hey. It's not my job to tell these guys where to put their dicks."

"Why're you sticking up for that psycho anyway?" said Jason. "He's a fucking _mass murderer_! Did you miss that? Did that bit of information fall out the back of your head with your brains? He's a twisted piece of cracka shit that deserves to suffer a lot more for what he did to us!"

Kyle scowled. He felt like something was dying inside him. "Two wrongs don't make a right."

Jason shoved him then, suddenly angry. "Eat shit, Kyle! Who're you to tell me how I get to treat the bitch that killed me?"

Kyle's jaw set and his grip tightened on the shotgun he was still carrying. "Because he killed you, you're gonna be a sick, twisted fuck now? Is that how this works?"

"You went and killed that therapist," Jason volleyed. "And he just fucked your girl."

"I didn't kill him," Kyle said tightly. "I didn't even hurt him. I just told him to leave. And he did."

Jason glared at him. Kyle stared back. Finally he shook his head and looked disappointed. He didn't say anything else. He just turned and started back toward the gym.

"You're just like us, you pretentious cock-sucker!" Jason called after him.

Kyle ignored him and kept going.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

When I was trying to figure out what the jocks' idea of revenge on their killer would be, I looked to history. I discovered that, over the past 20 years, high school and college boys have been arrested the most due to boy-on-boy anal intrusion crimes - more than any other crime by a wide margin. In one particular school, there were 10 such crimes over a period of 3 years that made the news. Some of the incidents at other schools were relatively mild: Hazings involving carrying food in said area across a sports field (the individual would have to eat it if they dropped it) but most were far more violent, even if the target was a friend who was just being inducted into a team or fraternity. Crimes against enemies/strangers were usually the most violent, leading to hospitalization and sometimes death.

_Pulp Fiction _is a Quentin Tarantino film that happened to come out October 1994 - the same year Tate shot up Westfield. It has a disturbing scene involving two hillbillies, two other men, anal sex and a guy in a black rubber suit very much like Rubber Man.

Mr. Cannavo is a nod to Mr. Schuester in _Glee_, another show by the folks who did AHS. I can't help imagining Mr. Schu as a ghost pressuring the dead kids into song and dance numbers to keep them occupied. Incidentally, the names of the other non-Dead Breakfast Club victims are all folks who worked on AHS season 1 - a joke of the creators' design.

The scene where Kyle charges into the weight room was already designed before Coven started but I couldn't resist tweaking the conversation to reflect the scene in Season 3 where Kyle charges in to rescue Madison. It was just too easy to overlap the two.

Next chapter: We'll be finishing up our trip to Westfield. How will it all pan out? You'll have to tune in next time to find out.


	8. Chapter 8 - School's Out

...

Ben stayed away only a few minutes before circling around the outside of the school. He approached from the back, hoping no one was watching that section of the parking lot. He found a dark stretch behind the dumpsters and experimentally poked at the shadows. He felt himself slipping in and he pulled back. It was exactly like back home, only he didn't need the suit here. Fascinated, he stepped into the darkness and melded with it.

Within, the shadows didn't feel the same. Similar but not the same. It was like deep sea diving without a wet suit. The darkness felt cold; alive. He didn't feel the surge of potency he normally got from the house. Here, he was riding the stream rather than controlling it. He tried feeling for Tate but again he could only sense a general impression of not being alone. He couldn't tell who or where or how many there were.

He emerged in a science classroom, rattling a life-sized human skeleton as he stepped out of the shadows. There was no one around. He tried again to orient on the sentient presences in the building. Still no luck. He was getting frustrated. He wanted to find Tate. He considered orienting on random people but he didn't want to risk running into Kyle so he rejected the thought.

He slipped back in the shadows and slid about the guts of the school, emerging here and there before sliding into the darkness again. He was getting nowhere fast.

He came out of the darkness into the cafeteria and cursed. He'd felt the wide open space and thought he was going to emerge in the library because he thought there was a good chance Tate had been taken there. He was about to jump back into the shadows when the PA system crackled.

"Hellooooo, Westfield!" Tate's voice came over the speaker in the wall, full of false cheer.

Throughout the school everyone stopped what they were doing and looked to the speaker nearest them.

"It's a great night in Wolverine country," Tate went on, just like he was reading morning announcements. The bright tone masked his tears. "The football team's reminded us with their latest score just why they're _so_ popular." He didn't try to trim the sarcasm. "So they're not included in what I'm about to say."

He paused then said, "The rest of you: I'm sorry you died. I'm sorry I killed you. I know some of you want to know why I did it but, for _most_ of you, there is no why. You were there. Here. I was batshit crazy, out of my mind and on drugs, too. You... You were a part of this place, this... thing. I didn't get it back then but I do now. It's this place, this school. It's the problem. It wasn't you. Except Jason and Luke. I'm glad I killed you, you fucks, for all the shit you put me through when I was alive. You guys can go to hell and suck Satan's double dick."

The speaker went silent for a moment while Tate calmed himself down. He wanted to sound like a radio guy, not a whiny kid. "Now pay attention, boys and girls," he said in that too-chipper voice. "It's test time! In about..." He paused to check the time. "Two minutes we're gonna have one hell of a Halloween party. I mean, it's gonna be a blast, guys. Really. So you better put those mad fire drill skillz to work unless you wanna be sent up to heaven in a giant fireball. Wolveriiiiiiiiiines!"

The PA went dead.

...

A mad scramble ensued. While the ghosts couldn't die, they could hurt. Most people who heard the announcement decided to take it seriously and left the school. Some, in life, had heard warnings and not heeded them in time and were now dead because of the choice. Andrew, a blind kid who just happened to go the wrong way during the shootings, had spent so many years in the school he was able to find his way out before anyone else did despite the fact that he still couldn't see.

Ben dove into the shadows and headed for the office. He knew where that was. But when he got there, it was empty. He wasn't sure where Tate might have gone. He was less sure whether he wanted to gamble on tracking him down. It sounded like he was going to blow the place up. The only area Ben could think of where there might be anything that could do that would be the cafeteria, where he'd just been. Either Tate was on his way there or he'd already been there. Or he was lying just to scare everyone. Ben couldn't rule that possibility out either.

"Tate!" Ben hollered. He sent a psychic urge with it, which would reach farther than he could yell. Regardless, there was no response.

He glanced at the clock on the wall above the main desk. He was running out of time.

"Violet!" he hollered next, sending out a similar urge to her. It occurred to him only after that if he couldn't find her in the school, she probably couldn't find him. He swore under his breath and left the office.

"Violet!" he bellowed down the halls. He could feel only a few souls within the school now. "Violet!"

"Dad!" She was behind him. She was visibly distraught. He hadn't seen her crying like that in years.

Ben turned and ran to her. He grabbed her in a hug and immediately started toward the exit, half carrying her.

"Dad, wait!" she sobbed. "We have to find Tate!"

He didn't wait. He went straight out the doors. "Tate will be fine," he said.

"No, he won't!" she insisted. "You don't know what they did to him!"

He let her go only once they were several steps away from the glass doors. "What? Who did what?"

There were a handful of teenagers in the parking lot clustered in a small group several yards from the school building. They were hugging themselves and looking scared. All of them had visible gunshot wounds. They were watching the school and the strangers with equal suspicion.

"Those jocks," Violet said. "Dad, we have to-"

That's when the school exploded.

It was a magnificent act of destruction. It started in the kitchen, where Tate had used a microwave and a couple of cans of oven cleaner to act as a detonator for the school's propane tank. The ensuing fireball blasted outward, taking out the cafeteria windows in a cacophonous shattering of glass. Metal framework bent and twisted outward and the whole building groaned like a living thing that just took a mortal wound.

The school shuddered and wrenched upward. Some witnesses would later say it had to be the force of a secondary explosion that caused the unusual motion but the investigators would find no sign of a second explosion later. There followed a deafening sound that vibrated through the ground like an earthquake as the building collapsed inward in a hail of rubble and dust.

The whole event took only a few seconds and knocked every nearby spirit off their feet with the strength of the physical and psychic blast. Dust clouded the air for several seconds then began to settle, replaced by a snow of thousands of sheets of paper that had been blown sky high. Ben helped Violet get to her feet. They and everyone else outside were covered head to toe in ash and soot.

The school burned brightly in the night, reduced to a flaming pile of rubble with foundation and support beams jutting up from the mess like shattered rib bones. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed.

...

In the parking lot, the students who'd made it out of the building before the explosion gathered together, coming around from the far side of the rubble to join the bigger group. Mr. Cannavo did a quick head count and found only three people missing: Andrew, Jason and Luke. The choir teacher and Jennifer went together to walk a circuit around the blazing wreckage to see if the missing teens were over on the other side. The remaining group watched the emergency crews tackle the fire.

"Holy shit," Stephanie murmured, wrapping her arms around her middle. "Holy shit."

"Holy shit's right," said Amir.

His voice hadn't been heard in over 24 years so when he spoke no one recognized his voice initially - not even him. They all looked at him and were stunned to see the last of his facial injuries knitting themselves up.

It was happening to all of them.

In just a few minutes they were all fully restored, if dirty. Whatever hold the school had on them had lifted with its destruction. And while they were all quite thrilled with their healed up states, there were other pressing concerns.

"Where are we going to go now?" Chloe asked, hugging herself.

Kyle was standing several feet away from her and he looked over at her. His impulse was to go and put his arm around her but thoughts of the therapist doing her changed his mind. He looked away to the burning school and shoved his thumbs in his pockets. Chloe noticed but didn't know how to take his odd behavior. She still didn't know he'd seen her with Ben.

"Where ever we want?" suggested Mark, the boy Tate had shot through a plate glass window.

"Can we do that?" Danielle, Tate's first victim, asked.

Kevin pulled his attention off the firemen and gave a small, hopeful smile. "G-guess we'll f-f-find out s-soon."

"Yeah," agreed Michael. He'd been sitting next to Danielle when she'd been shot. "Sun'll be coming up in a few hours."

"I don't wanna hang around here waiting for sunrise," said Mark. "I'm gonna go have some fun before the night's over. Who's with?"

"We should wait for Mr. Cannavo," said Danielle.

Mark made a derisive noise. "You wait for him. I'm gonna go to the movies."

Stephanie peered at him. "You're just going to leave?"

Mark shrugged. The chains on his motorcycle jacket jingled. "Why would I want to stay here? I've been stuck here for the past two decades. I'm gonna get my kicks while I can. You guys can stay here and roast marshmallows if you want."

The teen started to walk away then, toward the street.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away. Kevin looked from him to the group and back again. "Hey," he called to Mark. "I'm c-c-coming too!"

Kevin jogged to catch up with his fellow stoner then fell in step with him.

"I think I'm going to go too," said Amir. "I want to go eat. I haven't eaten in yeeeears. I think I'll start with steak. Then ice cream. Then iced tea. God, I've missed iced tea."

"I could go for some ice cream," Kelsey said. She was a freshman when she ran directly into Tate's line of fire. For the first time in years her side was whole and she felt like celebrating.

"You want to come with me?" invited Amir.

She smiled and he smiled back at her. It felt good to smile. Together they headed the same direction the other guys went.

"You're just going to leave?" exclaimed Stephanie. "You're just going to walk and let that bastard get away with this?"

A couple of the kids glanced back but none stopped walking. So she looked around what was left of the group. "We're not going to let him get away with this."

"Get away with what?" Kyle said, suddenly irritated.

Steph stared at him. "With what? How about THAT?!" She motioned grandly to the school fire that the authorities were still trying to put out.

The fire trucks had a good stream going. The water shorted some electrical lines, throwing sparks. Kyle looked at the work in progress and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his letterman jacket. Then he looked at the Goth girl.

"I think that's the best thing that's happened to me in nearly twenty-five years," he said grimly. Then he turned and headed the same way the other kids had gone.

"Kyle?" Chloe called after him. He didn't stop. He didn't even look back. He just kept walking.

Hurt and unsure what to do next, Chloe hugged herself tighter and looked around. She saw Mr. Cannavo coming back. He'd found the other boys. Andrew was blind; he'd been that way in life and it had been his downfall when he couldn't outrun Tate's gunfire. He'd gotten out of the school when the warning came over the PA but ended up on the far side of the school from the rest of the ghosts.

Jason and Luke followed close behind the teacher and blind kid. Jason was still smoking and Luke's letterman jacket was charred but neither was injured. Jason's head was whole again; he could see through both eyes for the first time in far too long. Even though he wanted to be outraged, he couldn't help feeling elated. He kept touching the side of his head and shoulder just because it felt so nice whole. Luke could walk without a limp and was already thinking about how he might put his rekindled athletic prowess to work for him in the near future.

Mr. Cannavo, also enjoying having a full-functioning head again, looked at the small group. "Where are the others?"

"They left," Steph grouched. "Going to the movies and bullshit like that."

Mr. Cannavo looked a little bewildered by that explanation. But he couldn't really fault the kids. October was the only time in the years past that they could roam freely. He wasn't sure they would have to return this year - he could no longer feel the school. The presence there that had been dictating their moves since before they died was no longer there. The explosion seemed to have abolished it. The thought of never seeing the kids again made Mr. Cannavo sad on one hand but on the other, he kind of hoped they would find something better; someplace nicer to haunt. A place of their choosing where they might find some peace and happiness.

"Maybe we should go too," he said after a bit.

"Go where?" Steph demanded.

The choir teacher gave her an encouraging look. "Anywhere we like. Where do you want to go?"

Stephanie frowned. She was discovering that she was fairly alone in her desire to keep the vendetta alive. "Home!" she said just because she knew she couldn't. "I want to go home! That was my home the last two fucking decades! I don't have another one!"

Mr. Cannavo moved closer to her. "Steph," he said. "I think it's time... to move on."

Danielle reached for Michael and he took her hand. He gave it a squeeze and their eyes met. She smiled at him. Tears in her eyes caught the firelight, making her eyes shine. Michael smiled back and leaned in to kiss her. It was their first kiss where Danielle's blood didn't get into the mix.

"I don't want to move on!" Stephanie raged. "He took _everything_ from me!"

"I feel ya, girlfriend," said Jason. "I already kicked his ass once today. I could do it again."

"Nobody's kicking anyone's ass," Mr. Cannavo said firmly. "There's been enough... enough destruction for one night."

Jason shrugged. "We can wait till next year," he said. He glanced at Luke who shrugged and nodded.

"Next year?" said Steph incredulously. "And what do we do till then? Where. Do. We. Go?"

"We can go to my parents house," Michael told Danielle. "It's huge. They'll never even know we're there."

"What about the rest of us?" Steph wanted to know. "We don't have rich parents with huge houses. What, we're stuck haunting a fucking parking lot for all eternity? Coz you know they're not going to rebuild that shit-hole. Not after everything that's happened."

"You can go where you want," Mr. Cannavo said again. "The school's gone. You're free."

"But _where_?" the Goth girl wailed. She burst into tears. She hated to cry. She hadn't done it in years, not where anyone could see. But she was undone. Lost. Afraid. "I don't know where to go!"

Mr. Cannavo gathered her up in a hug then and let her cry on his chest. "We'll figure it out," he assured her.

"Yeah," said Josh. He hated to see a girl cry. "We'll figure it out. Maybe we could all move into one of those big houses that people abandoned when the economy crashed. Find one with a pool."

"Isn't that stealing?" Jennifer asked. She was a cute, athletic blond girl who looked a lot better without the gaping hole in her side.

"Nah," grinned Josh. "We're dead. We can't steal. We can only... borrow."

Luke laughed at that. "Borrow," he repeated, chuckling. "I like that. I want to borrow the biggest fucking mansion in Hollywood."

"Those ones got people in them," said Jason. Then he brightened. "Hey! We could move in with a famous football player or movie star! That would be the sweet life! Babes, beer, big screen TVs. Have you seen the size of the TVs they got now?"

"Why don't we go discuss it somewhere less hectic," Mr. Cannavo suggested. Stephanie had stopped crying but she was still clinging to him. "I wouldn't mind getting something to eat myself. Everything's tasted like gunpowder to me these past years."

"What about _him_?" Steph said into the man's coat lapel.

Mr. Cannavo did a quick glance around. "I don't even see him. He probably left. I... don't think we'll have to worry about him anymore." He was basing that assumption on what the teen had said over the PA.

The blonde girl pulled away from him so she could see his face, to see whether he believed that or was just saying it to placate her. He looked sincere. She looked around too but all she saw were emergency workers and the healed faces of the people she'd come to know as family. She looked back to the choir teacher and nodded.

Mr. Cannavo put an arm around her shoulders and started to walk the same direction the others had gone, toward the street. "It's not the end of the world," he told the kids as they drifted along with him. "This is just a new beginning."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

In _Red Dawn_, the kids who banded together to assault the invading army would shout "Wolveriiiiines" every time they made a hit on the enemy. AHS Season 1 used the Wolverine as the mascot of the school and even had similar school colors to the ones used in Red Dawn.

_School's Out_, a great song for this chapter, is a song by Alice Cooper, that includes the lyrics "School's been blown to pieces". Another good song for this segment is Mogwai's _I Love You, I'm Going to Blow Up Your School_.

I'd thought this particular portion of Tate's past would be all tied up with this multi-chapter scene but Jason and Luke seem to have other ideas. Hopefully they'll find something better to do than harass Tate, now that they're not tied to the school and can go out and do things.

Next chapter: Tate deals with the fallout of blowing up the school, including Constance's reaction.


	9. Chapter 9 - All the Way Home

...

Tate watched the blaze from the top of the same hill where Kyle had tackled him earlier. There was some definite satisfaction in watching the school burn and a strong sense of relief as well. He watched till the first of the flashing emergency lights showed up at the parking lot. Right behind the cops and fire trucks were the news vans.

He got to his feet and was going to leave but he saw a couple of people heading toward his hill. Despite the ash covering them he could tell it was Ben and Violet. Tate didn't want to talk to anyone, not even them. He especially didn't want to see the look on Violet's face. He didn't want to see what she knew reflected in her eyes. But he couldn't just walk away either.

Father and daughter crested the hill together. Tate didn't look directly at either one of them. He folded his arms and ignored the hot tears that slid down his face.

"Why?" Ben asked. It was the question of the century. "Why did you do it, Tate?"

"Dad..." Violet said.

"You wouldn't understand," Tate said, cutting off whatever objection she had. He didn't want her saying anything about anything. "It doesn't fucking matter. It's done."

"That was your plan?" said Ben in a more challenging tone. He didn't like being dismissed - or left out of such a vital loop like blowing up schools. "To tear the place down?"

Tate shrugged, a gesture that was almost lost under the coat. "No. My first plan didn't work." He suffered a flash of anger then. "But this was better because now it can't do anything anymore."

"Tate, it was a school," the therapist said carefully. "It couldn't do anything before."

"Dad, don't," Violet tried again. But it was too late.

Tate glared at Ben then turned away in a flutter of coat tails and headed down the hill, away from the wreckage. Violet shot her father a look of blended irritation and impatience. Then she started after the other teen.

"Tate," she said, hurrying as best she could while going downhill. Her belief in gravity was inconvenient but not something she wanted to wrestle with while trying to figure out what to say to a guy who just blew up her old school. "Tate, stop."

He glanced back at her but didn't even pause. "Why? So you can tell me I'm wrong too?" He knew that wasn't her intent but he didn't want to think about anything.

"Tate, please," she said as they reached the bottom of the hill.

She put her hand on his elbow and he stopped then. He shut his eyes and tipped his head back, just soaking up that light touch even though he could barely feel it on his arm through the coat. He could feel it inside and it was a painful slice of heaven.

"Why didn't you wait for us?" she asked.

It wasn't what he expected to hear. He looked at her funny. More tears dripped from his jaw. "You wouldn't've let me take the guns."

"No shit," she said with a look that said the same thing. "Why did you bring them?"

Tate glowered again and stole a look Ben's way. "Because," he said. He paused for a long moment. Then: "I wanted to kill the school. It just seemed... right. Using the same things." His face screwed up then as he fought back a full-blown cry. "I'm going home."

He started walking then, not looking to see if the Harmons followed. They did.

"You know," said Ben after a bit. He spoke to Violet but he made sure he was talking loud enough that Tate could hear, even though he was a few feet ahead. "Those kids were looking pretty good there, after the fire. Did you notice?"

Violet looked at her father strangely. He gave her a meaningful look that urged her to play along. Then she got it. "Yeah," she said, reflecting. "Yeah, I guess they did. I wonder why they never healed up before."

"They couldn't," Ben said wisely. "I thought maybe it was just a few of them but none of them could. Not until the school blew up, from the looks of it."

Violet peered at him. She hadn't made that connection but now that it was spelled out for her she couldn't understand how she'd missed it. "Holy shit. You think..?"

Ben quirked a half-smile. "People keep saying Murder House has a weird control over the ghosts in it. I don't see why another haunted location wouldn't be the same way."

Tate's step had slowed a bit as he listened in on the conversation. He hadn't seen any of his victims close up after the explosion. He hadn't thought about the possibility that it might free them in ways other than what movies portrayed. They hadn't all suddenly ascended to heaven in a beam of white light but maybe he had freed them of some part of their cursed existence.

Ben's smile grew. He could tell Tate was listening and that the conversation was having the desired effect. He was about to add another layer when a car passed. The tires squealed as the driver slammed on the brakes. The vehicle stopped quite suddenly, just past the three of them. They all turned to see why it had stopped.

Tate's eyes got huge. "Oh, shit!" he whispered, recognizing the car. Terror shot through him, making him forget his pains and woes.

The driver rolled the window down and Constance's head popped out. She was raging mad. "Get in! NOW!"

No one had to ask who she was talking to. Tate felt a strong urge to run. But there was nowhere to run to. Sure, he could run and avoid her right that moment but come dawn he'd be stuck at the house where he couldn't hide from her.

"Mama..." he said as he moved that way. Fresh tears leaked out. He didn't have a follow-up statement. He was too scared.

Violet got mad. After everything that had happened that night, she didn't think Tate needed Constance making things worse. But the girl was too smart to pick a fight over who Tate should go with. So instead, when Tate climbed into the back seat, she did too. Constance twisted in the driver's seat and glared evil at her.

"Get out," the blonde woman snarled at the teen intruder.

"No," Violet said stubbornly. She wasn't afraid. "I need a ride. You're going my way."

Ben got in then and Constance looked about ready to blow through the roof of the tan boat of a car. "What the hell is wrong with you people?! Get out of my car!"

Tate watched the three of them, completely baffled by the goings-on. He didn't understand what was happening. He couldn't focus past the imminent fear of his mother's wrath and the thought that he should have taken the alleys. Why hadn't he gone home by alleyway?

Ben and Violet exchanged glances. Then Ben looked to Constance with his mild therapist's smile. "I'm escorting my patient tonight. We'll get out together."

"Unless you want to eat your teeth for your Halloween treat," the woman growled. "You'd better get out _now_."

"Please just go!" Tate said, fear getting the better of him. "Just go!" He appreciated the Harmons' concern but he knew they were unintentionally making things worse. He had to be alone with his mother sometime. She would see to it, he knew.

They both looked at him. Constance looked smug.

"No, Tate," said Ben. "We said we'd be with you tonight."

Violet took Tate's hand, a move that pierced his heart. "Please," he said, another wave of tears blinding him. "Just go."

"No," she insisted, holding his hand with both of hers. "You don't have to take her shit. You don't have to do what she says."

Constance's expression tightened again. "He's my son. He'll do what I say if he knows what's good for him."

"You can't do shit to him," Violet puffed. A thin, mean smile touched her lips. "He's a ghost. If he wants, he can disappear and you'll never see him again. You can't touch him if he doesn't-"

Right then Constance surged forward and slapped the girl, hard. It was a shock to everyone but Constance. Violet put a hand to the reddening area, eyes round.

"You listen to me, missy," Constance said. Her words were quiet, low and full of venom. "You have no idea what I'm capable of. You're starting a fight you do NOT want."

"Don't you touch my daughter!" Ben said, finally shaking off the shock.

Constance focused on him and sneered. "Get your daughter out of my car and I won't touch her."

Ben locked gazes with her. Hers was like a physical weight. It surprised him. He took Violet's elbow. "Come on, honey," he murmured. "Let's go."

"No! Dad!" exclaimed Violet. "No! I'm not letting her-"

"Come on," he insisted as he opened the car door. He tugged on her arm. "We need to talk. Now."

The girl frowned deeply, not wanting to back down. But she hadn't seen her dad like this before. She looked to Tate and he looked back, silently urging her to follow her dad. It hurt her to see the way he looked and it made her even madder. It was the second time that night she'd seen him in a position no person ever should be in.

"Find me at the house?" she said to him.

He gave a little nod and she let her dad tug her out of the car. It sped away the instant the door shut. The Harmons watched the car till it was out of sight.

Violet hugged herself, hating the fact that she'd let herself be pulled away so easily. "What, dad?" she said, lashing out at him. "What was so fucking important?"

Ben looked at her with a grim expression. "Constance is dead."

...

Constance didn't speak to her son the whole way home. The speed she drove at spoke for her: She was doing 60 miles per hour in an area zoned for 30. She slammed on the brakes outside her house so suddenly that it made the tires screech and threw Tate forward, into the back of the car's front bench seat. He righted himself and reached for the door handle but Constance was already out. She yanked the door open so hard it made the car shake.

He started to duck but her hand whipped out and caught him by the hair. She pulled. Hard. He yelped and followed the yank. He couldn't get one foot out soon enough so he ended up falling out. He landed on the sidewalk in front of her and scrambled up. She hit him as soon as he got to his feet, open-handed, right on the side of his head. His ear rang.

"Mama!" he said and put his arms up to shelter his face with.

She grabbed his arm, digging her nails in deep and purposeful. She slammed the car door then pulled him toward her house. "I _told_ you not to go to that school!" she yelled. "You were _supposed_ to come with us tonight! But you sent that bitch of a faggot instead?! You really do think I'm stupid, don't you!"

"No, mama," Tate whimpered, stumbling along behind her. His stiff Doc Marten's boots made him feel like he was trying to run in skis. "I don't! I just-"

"You just did what you always do," she cut him off. "Lied and did what_ you_ wanted to do!"

She pushed open the front door and shoved him through. She was so much stronger than he thought she was. He staggered and nearly fell. He was crying uncontrollably, close to hysterical in his panic. She advanced on him, hitting him again and again, where ever her hand could land.

"How could you!?" she screamed, working up to hurricane-force fury. "You blew it up, didn't you? You caused that explosion!"

Tate sobbed and cowered and tried to sink down to the floor but she grabbed hold of the lapels of his Union coat and kept him up. He wouldn't look at her face though. He just cried and covered his face with his arms to stop her hitting it.

"I'm sorry, mama!" he bleated. He wasn't sorry for blowing up the school. He was sorry for getting caught and sorry that it led to his getting slapped around.

"You are NOT!" she raged. "You_ enjoy _making others miserable!"

She hit him some more but the blows to the sides of his head and shoulders were unsatisfying for her. He wasn't really feeling it because of the way he was shielding himself and she knew it. It made her even madder. She grabbed one of his arms and yanked it down and hit the exposed area of his face as hard and as many times as she could before he could twist away again. His lip was bleeding by then.

"Mama, I'm sorry!" he wailed, trying again to sink to the floor.

But she still had his arm and wouldn't let go. She hauled him back up despite the fact that his legs weren't supporting him. In her anger she wasn't thinking about physics. But Tate was too scared and unhinged to notice either. He'd been yanked around by her through much of his childhood and, in his terror, he reverted back to remembered behavior.

"Constance!" Father Jeremiah said loudly from the stairs.

He had said her name two times before but the screaming and crying was so loud, no one heard him. She heard the priest that time and looked to the staircase. Father Jeremiah stood near the top, hands gripping the banister. He had a disapproving look aimed at her.

"Don't even start with me, priest," she snarled. She was in no mood to take guff from any man: Not Ben, not her son and not Jeremiah.

"You're scaring Michael," said Father Jeremiah, putting slight emphasis on Michael's name.

Constance's lips tightened. She didn't want to listen to him but she couldn't un-hear his words. She squeezed Tate's arm tight enough to make him whimper just because she knew she couldn't hit him anymore. She looked at her boy then, stared knives into him.

"We're not through," she hissed. Then she used his arm to shove him toward the door. "Get out of here. You go to your room next door and you stay there till I come for you."

Tate scrambled for the door without a look back. She didn't bother checking to see where he went. She could feel him racing toward Murder House.

"Was that necessary?" said Father Jeremiah in open disapproval.

Constance drew herself up proudly and smoothed a hand over her hair. "Don't stick your pious nose where it doesn't belong, Father," she said, cold but smug. "You've been a great help but I don't need you here any longer. If you mess with me, you'll find yourself without a job."

Jeremiah frowned. "I don't work for you."

She arched a brow. "Oh, you don't?" She laughed and moved over to the stairs. "Who do you work for then?"

Father Jeremiah folded his hands before him loosely. "I serve Samael. And I will continue to do His bidding whether you want me here or not."

She began to ascend the stairs then, slowly. Like a predatory wildcat. "Samael. What's that? An angel? I thought you priests were supposed to serve God."

Jeremiah's expression tightened. "I serve Samael."

"Did Samael tell you I couldn't discipline my child?" She stopped two steps below him, meeting his stony gaze with a fiery one.

He shifted his weight. "No. But I'm not going to stand by and let you brutalize any soul."

"I _made_ that soul!" she said, passionate tears in her eyes. "I'll tear it to pieces if I want!"

The priest frowned deeper. "He's your _son_."

"That's right," she said with a regal air. "_My_ son. How I treat him is my business!"

Jeremiah looked uncomfortable. "You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar."

"Oh, don't start quotin' the bible at me, you pretentious holy roller!"

"Ben Franklin said that," corrected Jeremiah.

She pursed her lips. Then she forced a smile. "There isn't a vat of honey big enough to catch that fly, Father. And if you think he doesn't deserve every moment of hell I give him, you'd better do your homework and find out who my son really is... And what he's done."

She brushed past him then and went to her room.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

So. Constance took that well. Not. I tend to view these scenes through Tate's eyes but, editing it, I couldn't help thinking what it must be like to have a kid who went on a killing spree, spend your life trying to figure out how to save his soul because of it, only to have him run off and blow up the same place where he murdered a bunch of people. Father Jeremiah doesn't really care about the circumstances though. He doesn't like to see young people terrorized by an out-of-control Constance.

'All the Way Home' is the last line of the nursery rhyme _This Little Piggy_.

Next chapter's the last one in this episode. In it, Tate returns to Murder House and the ghosts that are waiting for him. It can't be worse than Constance's reception. She's a tough act to follow.

Oh, and if you're following my Coven story, it'll have an update after the next episode that airs. I'm waiting to see what the writers do with the trio idea.

Happy T-day, folks in the USA. T being for 'turkey day' or 'Thanksgiving day'. Or even 'Tate Day'! Take your pick.


	10. Chapter 10 - Homecoming

...

Tate didn't register the run back to Murder House. He didn't really take in anything till he was in his room with the door shut and he collapsed beside his bed. He folded his arms on the edge, put his head down and cried. It was a rough expulsion of emotion: It hurt his face, it hurt his throat and shoulders and sides. It added to the pain from his incompletely healed internal injuries. He sobbed, ragged and wounded. Broken.

Then there was a hand on his back, cool and light and gentle. His sobs quieted some but he couldn't seem to stop entirely. He didn't lift his head.

"My sweet Tate," Nora said softly, near his ear. "Don't cry so."

He hiccupped, gulped a breath and lifted his head just enough to peek out at her with bloodshot eyes. "I hurt," he said after a moment, voice thick.

She pet his back and tried in vain to smooth his messy mop of blond hair. "I know," she said. "I know."

Chad and Patrick came into the room then. Tate glanced over but avoided looking at their faces. He was afraid of what he'd see. He wiped his nose on his sleeve so he could lift his head more without looking disgusting.

"I blew up the school."

"So we gathered," said Chad.

Patrick gave him a nudge. Chad favored him a prissy frown.

"Why did you do that?" Nora asked, perplexed.

Tate focused on her again. "It was evil. It had to die."

Chad's expression soured more. "Well, you'd better not get any ideas about blowing this place up."

"I wouldn't!" Tate objected.

Chad wasn't convinced. He knew his house was hardly innocent and didn't want it subjected to cleansing by a psychotic teenager on a mission. But Patrick had that Look so he shut up about it for the moment.

"That place needed to go," Tate reaffirmed, telling himself that as much as he was saying it to the others. He rubbed his face with both hands, hating how wet it felt. "I'm glad it's gone."

Patrick shook his head. "Tate..." He wanted to tell him that he couldn't solve problems by blowing things up but it seemed futile. The deed was done. He sighed and shifted his weight uncomfortably. "You didn't hurt anyone, did you?"

"No!" the teen said defensively. "They hurt ME!"

Tate regretted saying that immediately. He could tell by the others' reactions that they were both surprised and dismayed. He felt pity in the air and he wanted none of it. It made him kind of mad that everyone was in his room, uninvited, judging him. Tears started to fall again.

Patrick moved over to where he was and sat down on the bed, on the opposite side from where Nora was kneeling on the floor. "What happened?" he asked.

Tate scowled down at his hands and started picking at his fingers. "I'm tired."

Pat glanced over at Chad who folded his arms and raised his brows.

"Okay," said Patrick. "We'll talk about it tomorrow. Age down and get ready for bed."

Tate looked up at him, confused. He never got sent to bed on Halloween. "But-"

"No buts," said Chad in his no-nonsense tone. "You said yourself that you're tired. Tired boys go to bed."

Nora rose to her feet and petted Tate's hair a couple of times then kissed his forehead. She smiled at him, a look that was faded by the unshed tears in her eyes. "Good night, darling. Sweet dreams."

She drifted to the door and let herself out with a polite smile to Chad as she passed. She would go check on her other angel, dear fussy Joshua.

Tate looked from one man to the other and was met with a unified wall of sternness. He frowned. "It's Halloween," he said as he got to his feet.

"No shit," said Chad. "I just spent the last hour or so parading about in a child's costume with your God-damned mother, pretending to be you. Do you know how ridiculous I felt? You owe me, buster. Big time. And right now what you can do is what you're told, without back talk. Do you understand?"

Tate frowned deeper and felt more tears welling up. He'd already had a shitty night. He didn't need more crap raining down on him. "This sucks!" he exclaimed.

"You want to tell us what happened instead?" offered Patrick.

Tate glared at him, suddenly realizing the ploy. He was being managed, by both men. He felt ganged up on. They were offering him a choice that wasn't really a choice at all. He could talk or he could go to bed before ten o'clock on Halloween.

He huffed a sigh. "Fine," he grumped, making it obvious he didn't think it was fine at all. He sat down on the edge of the bed, leaving a space between him and Patrick big enough to fit another person in. "I showed up. Mister Football Kyle tackled me and killed me. Then he let his stupid jock brothers do it too. There. Happy?"

"Absolutely ecstatic," Chad said, rolling his eyes. He folded his arms loosely. "You had to know they'd do something like that. I mean, you did kill _them_, after all."

Tate sulked at him. "And I said I was sorry."

That got another eye roll. "I'm sure that made them feel sooo much better."

Tate's frown darkened. "You're the one who said you wanted to hear this."

"And you blowing up the school ties into that apology how?" Chad said archly.

Patrick grimaced. Tate looked down at his hands and started picking at his thumbnail.

"I told you," he said, weariness creeping into his voice. "It was evil. It was the reason all the bad stuff happened."

"I seriously doubt that," said Chad in a way that made it plain he put a lot of blame squarely on Tate.

It was more than the teen could handle, after the night he'd had. "God! Nothing I say is good enough for you, is it? You just _want_ to be mean to me!"

Chad pursed his lips and tightened the fold of his arms. "If I wanted to be mean I'd shave you bald so I'd never have to look at that disgusting rag mop you call hair again," he said tersely. "Don't forget, baby boy: You killed us too."

Tate's mouth got real tight and he laced his fingers together in a tight squeeze. Even still he couldn't stop himself crying. He shuddered with the effort to repress it but in moments he was reduced to tears again. He managed to keep it quiet but it was obvious how hard he was struggling to contain himself.

Patrick sighed. "Chad, why don't you let me handle this from here," he suggested.

Chad shifted his weight. "Only if you handle it in a way that makes sure he doesn't blow anything else up." Of course he was still concerned about the house.

Pat lowered his chin a little, eyebrows inching up. "You think I can't?"

They locked gazes for a moment then Chad sighed a martyr's sigh. "Fine," he said in a way almost identical to the way Tate had delivered the same word earlier. "But I swear to God if he does anything to my house, I'll kill him myself."

"I'm not gonna blow the house up!" Tate yelled through his tears.

Patrick reached over and put a firm hand on the back of his neck. "Knock it off," he said.

The words were calm, quiet even, but they carried a promise of unhappy consequences that settled the teen right down. Tate sniffled and looked at him, hurt and angry. He wanted to accuse Pat of always taking Chad's side but it was a futile way to go and he knew it. So he glared at his own hands instead.

Chad shook his head. He looked like he was going to say something more but he caught Patrick's look and just rolled his eyes again. Then he left the room and shut the door behind him.

Once he was gone Pat looked back at Tate. "I don't know what happened there," he said. "But I know it's more than you're saying." He held up his other hand to stop the objection he could see rising in the blond boy's expression. "I'm not going to pressure you about it. Whatever happened, that's yours to own. So is whatever comes from your blowing up that school. What happened to those ghost kids you killed?"

Tate twitched a little shrug. "They were all standing around watching it burn."

Pat sighed. "Ah, well," he said. Some part of him had hoped Tate would say they'd been released to heaven. It was a nice thought anyway. "You know they'll probably be back here next Halloween."

Tate shrugged again but he sank lower into his coat. "Yeah. Probably." He hoped they wouldn't but Patrick was most likely right. Despair washed over the teen and he hunched over, hurting inside so badly he couldn't straighten up.

Patrick felt a little sting of something like remorse. He hadn't deliberately set out to make Tate feel worse. He wouldn't have asked Chad to leave if he wanted to do that. But if Tate felt badly about anything involving the murders he committed, Pat had to think that was a positive step - even if it was a selfish one as well.

"I'm not going to punish you tonight," he said after letting the teen have his moment of misery.

Tate straightened a little to peek through his messy fringe at the older guy. He was both dismayed to hear talk of punishment but relieved at the same time that he wouldn't have to deal with it in his current condition.

"Yes, I am going to punish you," Pat went on, reading his expression. "But tomorrow's soon enough. Right now I think you need to sleep."

"It's Halloween!" Tate whined and more tears slipped out.

"Tate, you're a wreck," Pat said bluntly. "What're you going to do the rest of the night in your condition?"

Tate was a picture of moroseness. "I want to see Violet. I told her I'd find her when I got back."

Patrick looked at him for a long moment. "Not tonight," he decided.

"But-" the teen started, desperation etching his pale features.

"No, Tate," said Pat firmly. "In the state you're in you're just going to do or say something you'll regret later. Tomorrow is soon enough - for everything. Violet will understand."

Tate looked like he'd been shot. He started to sob again. He thought about defying the man but he really was spent, emotionally and physically; worn to a thin, frayed end. He quieted a little when he felt Patrick's hand move down to rub his back in a surprisingly soothing way.

"I'm not tired," he grumped.

Patrick laughed, short and dry. "That's not what you said a bit ago."

Tate sniffled. He thought about the prospect of trying to sleep and it was an overwhelming one. Trying to sleep meant lying alone in bed, hurting and thinking thoughts he didn't want to think until the blackness came to send him even more bad thoughts while he slept.

"Can... Can I sleep with you tonight?"

Pat considered. He had so many plans for the night that had been derailed. Nothing he'd intended to do with his free time had happened. The idea of sacrificing what little time he had left wasn't a welcome one.

"I'm not going to bed right now," he said.

Tate started to cry again. Patrick was torn between being a hard ass and cutting the kid a break. It was a tough spot to be in. It should be easy, he thought, just to tell Tate to suck it up and deal. But it wasn't. Pat didn't want to feel badly for him but he couldn't help it. Telling himself that this mess was what the teenager deserved for being such a maniac didn't work.

He sighed heavily, disappointed. "God, Tate. How the hell did you get so fucked up?" He patted the blond teen's back. "You can sleep in my room while I read."

Tate looked up and hope showed through the river of tears. "You're not going out?"

Pat's lips twisted in a dour look. "Families sometimes make sacrifices for each other."

Tate looked at him funny. It was the second time that day that one of his fosters had said something like it. It was a strange thing to hear, for him. Finally, in a small and ragged voice he said, "Thanks." A few more tears leaked out, pulling straight from the heart.

"Uh-huh," said Patrick. "You'd better remember this. Now go get ready."

"Do I have to age down?" asked Tate as he got up. He moved toward the door. "I d'know if I can. I'm completely tapped."

Patrick eyed him like he was reading a polygraph. "Not tonight," he allowed. "Just don't let Chad know. You know how he feels." He deliberately didn't specify what about. They both knew.

They left the room and, as they headed toward Patrick's bedroom, the man put an arm around Tate's shoulders.

**xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

End episode 9. Roll credits, etc. It's not a real tight ending, I know. That's because we're wrapping around the final curve here so the last couple of episodes kind of bleed into each other. The series is set to end with episode 12. So far it seems on target, amazingly. It's gotten very far off course compared to the original story outline I had. It's taken a lot of effort to reign it in. As it is, there are still going to be a few nagging ends that simply can't be tied up in this series, such as whether the dead kids from Westfield come back next Halloween. I was already planning to do some one-shots after finishing the series so I'll probably try to get to those loose ends with that approach. Funny thing about stories... there can never be a happy ending because the story never ends. It just changes.

Next episode is **American Horror Story - Season 1.5, episode 10:**** Ghost World**. In it we learn more about the house's new owner and the ghosts learn more about the world they belong to - and the prophecy that's set to change everything. How does Rubber Man fit into the equation? With ghosts disappearing, is anyone in Murder House safe? Stay tuned to find out.


End file.
